“You see what this means?” he said to Beorn as soon as they were riding south toward Roselynde.
“I beg pardon. No, lord, I do not.”
“It means they come from outside our land, curse them. They may be lairing on the royal demesne property in or around the Forest of Bere or mayhap on church property as far away as Bishop’s Waltham. I will wager also that they do not raid the land they lair upon. We have trouble, Beorn. I had hoped they were hiding on the estate itself or coming off Rowland land.”
“Where is the difference, lord?”
“The difference is that I would rather offend Rowland than the king. If I must trespass to root out this band of brigands… Well, it is not my decision to make alone. I must talk to Lady Alinor.”
The expression of relief on Beorn’s face almost made Ian laugh aloud. However, it was significant of more than the fact that Beorn respected and feared his mistress. Obviously, he knew that Simon consulted Alinor on such matters, or he would have been surprised by what Ian said. That was very interesting. Ian knew, of course, that Alinor had managed the fiscal and, at need, the judicial business of her estates. He had not realized how closely she was involved in the defense of her lands.
“There is little more we can do now,” Ian continued. “Let us return. Tell your men to eat well and get what sleep they can. We will ride out again tonight. Think also of about ten men who would make reliable battle captains. I will see them in the great hall after dinner.”
“Yes, lord.”
Ian glanced sidelong at Adam. They had been out longer than Ian had expected. Beorn had made the understandable error of concentrating his patrols close in to Roselynde Keep. In a war condition, that was logical, because the raiding would be connected with spying out the castle and its defenses and the best area into which to settle an attacking force. That was the type of situation with which Beorn was familiar. During the reigns of old King Henry and even Richard, the countryside had been relatively free of landless, marauding bands. When attacks were launched, they were private wars of the nobility directed at gaining property or avenging an insult.
The troubles that were racking England now were of a different sort. Heavy taxation and poor crops had ruined many villeins, small farmers who owned a few acres of land, and even some of the lesser squirearchy. Some understanding or rich landlords, like Alinor, simply carried the burden, allowing the debt to mount and hoping that better times would permit the free smallholder to repay it in the future. Some landlords did not care, or were so pressed for money themselves that they could not carry nonpaying tenants. These put the villein off his land and found another tenant who could pay; it was a double profit, in that the new tenant had to buy the land as well as pay the rent. Unfortunately, this left the previous tenant with nowhere to go and no way to keep his family from starvation.
Some sold themselves into bondage, sinking to the level of serf to keep bread in their mouths and a roof over their heads. Some went into the growing towns, where the fortunate found employment in the new industries of trade and manufacture, and the unfortunate died of want or were flogged or hanged. Many, however, desperate and embittered, formed together into bands and preyed upon those more fortunate than themselves. Occasionally these bands would be led by a dispossessed knight or the rebellious younger son of a nobleman. These marauders, managed with discipline and intelligence, were the hardest to deal with, and Ian feared that that was what he had found here.
It seemed to Ian that they had been out too long for Adam. The boy still sat straight in the saddle, but he looked pale to his suddenly anxious stepfather. They had another two hours of riding, even if they did not skirt the borders of the estate but rode directly for the keep. Ian glanced at the sun, or, rather, at the bright area that betrayed the sun’s presence in the cold, gray sky. He could not afford to stop and call a rest if he wanted the men to have time to eat and get a little sleep. And he could not simply take his shield from Adam. The child had behaved beautifully. To relieve him of his duty without any cause—to say he was tired would be the most shameful excuse of all—would be an insult.
“Adam,” Ian said, “do you understand what I have done and what I have discovered?”
The boy turned his head. His eyes were heavy, and his lips looked a little blue. Consciously, he lifted the hand that held the rein from the saddle pommel, where he had allowed it to rest.
“I—I do not—I am not sure, lord.”
“Very well. I am glad you are so honest. Give me my shield and come sit before me so that I can explain it to you.”
“I can listen while I ride,” Adam protested uncertainly.
“No doubt,” Ian replied, “but you know I have lately been ill. It is tiring for me to need to raise my voice for so long. If you sit before me, I can talk softly.”
“A damwein y gadei yr un y dwyn,” Owain said.
For a moment Ian was surprised. It was an odd time to be quoting old fairy tales. Then he laughed. Owain had made a reference to proud men who “rarely allow anyone to be carried”.
“Diamheu!” Ian replied. The one word, “undoubted”, carried his meaning without exposing his lack of mastery of the incredibly complex grammar of Welsh or his inability to sing the exquisite language as it deserved.
Beorn watched as Ian lengthened his shield strap and swung it over his shoulder, took the boy into his arms, tenderly tucking his cloak around the youngster. He thanked God that he need not worry about that beloved hellion any longer. Lord Ian loved him and could control him. Owain caught the reins of Adam’s horse and fastened them to a loop on the rear of his saddle so that he could ride beside his master. He knew the lecture was really for him. Adam was too young. Ian began to describe why he had taken the route he had chosen, how he had put the information he had received together, and what his conclusions were. Adam’s eyes closed. Owain listened intently, interspersing questions. Someday not too far in the future he would need to ask similar questions and draw conclusions from the answers. Beorn retired into his own thoughts. Why a thing happened or must be done was the business of the lord. Thank God there was again a lord to do that part. His business was to follow orders. The lord required ten worthy battle captains. Beorn began to consider his subordinates.
When a manservant came running to tell Alinor the troop had returned, she put down her needle and went to a window that overlooked the bailey. Although she had to unhook the scraped hide that kept out a little of the cold and let in some light, she was in time to see Ian waking Adam, his head bent affectionately over the boy, who was stretching and yawning in his arms. Alinor shook her head at the sight of Ian’s shield on his shoulder, but she knew she would say nothing. The explanation was apparent. They had been out too long, Adam had tired, and Ian would not injure the boy’s pride by giving his shield to another bearer.
Fear touched her. A messenger waited for Ian in the castle, a messenger wearing the colors of the Earl of Salisbury. The unfolding scene below increased her anxiety. The cheerful voices and laughter of the men reflected the sense of satisfaction of their leader. When they had been out with Beorn, they had come back sullen and uncertain, frustrated by their repeated failures to accomplish anything. Even Beorn looked relaxed. There was a spring to his step, as if he had cast off an enormous weight. Owain, a far more suitable companion for a boy than the crude men-at-arms, was shepherding Adam’s sleepy steps into the forebuilding. Alinor was intensely grateful for Ian’s presence. She did not wish to lose him.
He came into the hall directly behind Owain and his staggering charge, walking lightly in spite of the weight of mail. The shield was gone, Alinor noted as she turned to bid Joanna take her brother up to the women’s quarters and see that he was washed. Geoffrey, who had been playing chess with Joanna, sprang to his feet. Alinor bid him fetch the Earl of Salisbury’s messenger to his master.
“Did he say from where he came?” Ian asked.
“France.”
“Peste! Then Salisbury has not sailed
yet, and it is something to do with the king.” The messenger appeared on Geoffrey’s heels before there was time for more speculation. Ian took the letter he held out. “This is my betrothed wife, Lady Alinor,” he said to the messenger. “Whatever you have to say may be said to her.”
“There was no verbal message, my lord.”
Ian looked down at the letter and groaned softly. “It is in his own hand,” he said to Alinor as he gestured dismissal at the messenger.
“Then it is bad news?”
“Yes, likely,” Ian replied with a wry smile, “but what is worse is that I may never find out what it says. I told you Salisbury was not like the Angevins. It must be said for them that they all take to scholarship like a bird to the air. Every one, even the daughters, writes a fine hand.” He broke the seal, looked at the letter, shook his head, and handed the rolled sheet to Alinor. “Salisbury, may God bless and keep him, is the only one of Henry’s sons who seems perfectly impervious to clerkly skills.”
In spite of her anxiety, Alinor had to laugh as her eye scanned the page. If anything, Ian’s remark seemed an understatement. Words appeared interspersed with blots and spatters of ink straggling at odd angles across the page. Sometimes it was not possible to determine whether certain words belonged to the line above or the line below. In certain areas the words did not appear to form any lines as they rose above or curled around blotches on the sheet. Alinor also wondered whether Salisbury had bothered to cut the quill, or whether he had merely plucked the feathers from some unfortunate bird and used them in their natural state. The heavy flow of ink had smeared; a’s, o’s, e’s and c’s appeared indistinguishable, as did m’s, n’s and w’s.
Ian’s brow contracted. “Yes, but it is not really funny. It will take hours and hours to decipher that, and I must go out again after dinner if we are to take the reavers. Yet I must know what he says.”
“If you will trust me,” Alinor suggested, “I will write you a fair copy.”
“Of course,” Ian said, and snapped his fingers. “It is so foolish. I know you can read and write—I have seen you at it and doing accounts, too—but it is so odd a thing for a woman that it goes out of my head. But do you think you can manage this? A tale or a letter written by a scribe is a far different thing—”
Alinor laughed. “More easily than you could, I suppose. My heart warms toward William of Salisbury. This letter is so like unto my grandfather’s scrawls that I must love Salisbury for its sake. Go and unarm yourself, Ian, and I will set dinner forward and get to work on this.”
A week before Salisbury’s message arrived at Roselynde Keep, Salisbury had been reading a letter from his wife. When he finished, he stared into space for a time. Eventually a slow, amused, and affectionate smile softened his worried expression. He sighed and rose. He had done what he could, and failed again, and now John had slipped completely into apathy. Since he could do no good, he might as well go home. Still smiling, he carried his letter with him and craved audience with his brother.
The Lady Ela was more than usually ill, William reported. John looked at him with dull eyes. The queen was known to be with child now and John, with the legitimate excuse that he dared not touch his wife for fear he would do some harm to the long-awaited heir, was making merry with a dozen ladies at a time. He had little interest or strength for anything else. Moreover, he knew Lady Ela well and was aware that her husband’s absence for three months without an occasional visit would increase her ill health markedly. He smiled lazily as he gave Salisbury permission to leave.
“I do not know why you do not strangle her, brother,” he said. “I promise you, there is no man who would not call it justifiable murder. Certainly not I, and I would be your judge.”
“I am accustomed,” Salisbury replied, grinning. “There are worse things that can befall a man than a wife who desires his company. She is less ill when I am with her.”
“Then go, by all means. Even I have been receiving letters.”
“I am sorry, John. I will tell her not to do that again. You should not be troubled by Ela’s megrims.”
“Do not scold her,” John replied indifferently. “I assure you, her letters do not trouble me at all.”
No, Salisbury thought, bowing himself out, just now nothing troubles you. At another time he might have tried to rouse his brother, but at present he was pleased that John should be idle. When the king woke from this lethargy that afflicted him periodically, he would rush into feverish activity, and Salisbury was worried about what that activity would produce. For one thing, it would bring the king back to England and, flown with his French success, John had determined on a new round of taxes. Further, he would doubtless begin to press the Pope to approve the Bishop of Norwich as Archbishop of Canterbury.
A minor matter, but important to those involved, John would certainly act in the matter of the widow that Ian de Vipont wanted to marry as soon as he was ready to act at all. Salisbury sighed. He could only suppose the woman had been approached and had refused John’s advances. Salisbury deplored from his heart his brother’s habit of meddling with the wives and daughters of the great nobles of the land. It was one thing to take the daughter of some minor knight to your bed. Usually in those cases the father was flattered. Adequate provision could be made for the girl, either with a small estate or a marriage to another minor knight who would be happy to obtain the king’s favor at the small cost of his wife’s maidenhead. It was something else again to try to play with the wife of a man like Simon Lemagne.
Well, Salisbury thought, he had done what he could—which was nothing. He was sorry for the woman, but de Vipont could be satisfied with some other heiress. Then suddenly he stopped stock-still. That was nonsense. Ian was not concerned with the lands of the heiress. His talk had been all of the children, and if John gave the woman to any of the men he had suggested— Salisbury turned cold. The boy would not survive a week, and the fate of the girl might well be worse. He had a sudden clear image of Ian’s face when he spoke of the children and an equally clear memory of Ian’s gentleness with Geoffrey. Ian had been a loyal vassal to John, but his loyalty would not survive that. Lemagne had other friends, too—Pembroke and Leicester—and Lord Llewelyn of Wales was close-bound to de Vipont.
Salisbury nearly turned and went back to reason with John again. Coupled with the new taxes, an affront of that kind—the forced marriage of a lady of high estate and wide connections to a low-born favorite—might be just the ugly little spark to ignite a conflagration of rebellion. But Salisbury knew it was no use reasoning with John now. John would only smile and say it did not matter or even promise to do as Salisbury urged; however, neither the seeming indifference nor the promise would stop him from taking vengeance once he was in one of his fits of frantic energy.
Chapter Five
Salisbury’s letter was not really so difficult once one settled to it and gave close attention, but Alinor’s eyes darkened with worry as she rewrote the message. Guilt plucked at her also. Ian had said he would marry her, will she, nill she, and he knew about the king’s ill will. She had hoped, however, that they would be married before King John remembered his spite and therefore that the spite would not flow over onto Ian. It was too late for that now. Had she really resisted enough? Had she advanced the right arguments to deter him? Truly, her lust for Ian had so beclouded her mind that there was neither conviction nor honesty in her resistance. I could offer to release him, she thought. Immediately she hissed impatiently at her own dishonesty. That would merely insult Ian in order to give a sop to her conscience.
There was a great deal to discuss and little time. Alinor remembered that Ian had said he must ride out again. That meant that he probably would be out all night and they would not have time to talk after the children were abed. She thought a moment, then called to a passing maidservant and bid her set places for Ian’s squires and Adam and Joanna at Beorn’s table. Lessons in courtesy were all very well, but not when they interfered with more serious matters. W
hen all was ready, and her children had been ordered in a tone with which they did not argue to sit where they were told, Alinor sent a manservant to fetch Ian. He came from his chamber looking tousled and sleepy and so very young and beautiful that Alinor’s breath caught.
For all his sleepy looks, he did not miss the significance of the two places set at the high table. He gestured toward the table set just below Alinor’s and said to Owain and Geoffrey, “Sit and eat. I will serve my myself and Lady Alinor this day. We have no time for elegance. But mind your manners with Lady Joanna. I will have my eye upon you. And do you both mind that Master Adam comports himself like a gentleman.” Then he put his hand out and Alinor laid her fingers formally on his wrist. “It is not good, I suppose,” he said softly.
“No.”
“Oh well.” Suddenly he laughed and shrugged. “Do you want my bad news first, or should we consider Salisbury’s before we come to the reavers?”
He pulled the bench out so that Alinor could go around without lifting or catching her skirts, pushed it in behind her, and stepped over it to seat himself. The gesture was so practiced, so automatic, and Ian’s mind was so plainly elsewhere that Alinor was stung by jealousy. A very polished courtier indeed, this second husband. Simon had been, too, of course, but except for one incident—which Alinor knew had existed only in her own imagination—she had never doubted for a moment that Simon loved only her. Thoroughly ashamed of the trend of her thoughts, considering the danger into which Ian was putting himself just to protect her, Alinor wrenched her mind to what he had said.
“The felons are not hidden on my land then?”
“No, nor on Rowland land either.”
“That means they must lie in the Forest of Bere or in the Church lands south of Bishop’s Waltham. You are well-acquainted with the Bishop of Winchester. Would he not give you leave to pursue them onto his lands?”
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