Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  Until that moment Ian had been very silent, partly because he was very much interested in hearing the details of the chase he had missed, and partly because he did not trust himself to speak more than a word at a time to Alinor. She had returned, much disheveled, with her hair completely loose, full of sticks and leaves, and had, like the other ladies, retired at once to put herself to rights. The rights were almost more than Ian could bear with the circumspection necessary before a crowd of people. Just as she tossed aside the torn and dusty wimple and her bloodstained riding dress, Alinor had cast off the hoyden, even cast off the lovely and lively young woman Ian had always known. Garbed in a soft, deep-green tunic and rich gold cotte, her eyes a little heavy-lidded with fatigue, her lips reddened by cold and exercise, Alinor suddenly presented to Ian an image of sultry sexuality. He did not know where to rest his eyes and had some difficulty in keeping his hands to himself.

  The presentation of the sow’s head brought his seething desire, his sense of loss for the Alinor he had known, who seemed to have disappeared, and his terror at the remembrance of her wild heedlessness of her own safety all to a head. Completely forgetting himself, Ian flushed brick red and roared, “Alinor! Did you not swear to me you would not hunt?”

  “Would you have me sit and watch my friends and guests trampled and slashed without raising a finger to help them?” Alinor flashed back in no more moderate tone than his own.

  The men at the high table whistled, clapped, and stamped their feet, urging on their host and hostess as one would encourage a pair of fighting dogs. This, naturally enough, reduced the combatants to laughter, but the militant light did not fade completely from either pair of eyes. Good breeding required that the battle be carried on in private, and so it would be at the proper time and place.

  However, the fight was not to be continued that night when Ian and Alinor went up. Ian abruptly dismissed the menservants who had helped him up the stairs as soon as they reached the antechamber, and closed the door leading to the main room.

  “You could have allowed them to help you into bed,” Alinor protested. “We could talk as well with you lying down. You look tired and you look as if your leg hurts.”

  “I will not sleep in your bed tonight, Alinor,” Ian said stiffly. If he lay there this night on the sheets that smelled of the same spicy scent—rose and something else—that Alinor used on her body, Ian knew he would not sleep at all. “There is a truckle bed set up for me in there.” He gestured with his head toward the small chamber where Alinor’s maids usually slept. “Do not argue with me,” he added sharply. “I will not need any attendance tonight. I have something important to say, however, before we sleep. Oxford, as you might have noticed if you were not too busy killing sows, did not join the hunt.”

  “First of all, I did not swear I would not hunt,” Alinor began heatedly. “All I said was—”

  “Never mind that now,” Ian said quite unfairly. “Oxford, as we both knew, came for a purpose, and he laid it before me while you were out. What does on your Irish lands, Alinor?”

  “What does not?” Alinor remarked disgustedly, at once abandoning argument in favor of business. “My chief vassal there is one Sir Brian de Marnay, and until three years ago we had no trouble. The lands were never of great profit. The people are rude and the country largely untilled. Simon went there—let me see, it was just before Joanna was born—to see why so much land yielded so little profit. He was well received and confirmed that Sir Brian seemed loyal enough and that no more could be wrested from the land without doing more harm than good. Then our dear king appointed this madman Meiler FitzHenry as justiciar, and all went awry. He has driven the lesser barons into so determined a revolt that de Marnay can do nothing with them. Now rather than little, I receive nothing. Sir Brian wrote to Simon begging for help, but that was after Simon fell ill, and I did not even show him the letter.”

  “That was right. You could do no other way. Alinor—”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. My heart ruled my head there, for Simon could at least have advised Sir Brian on the best tactics, which might have been of help. However, I could not bear that he should know he was called upon for help and unable to go. He fretted so much over his helplessness. So I told Sir Brian what had happened and begged him to do his best. I think he does. Simon said he was an honest man, and Simon was not easily befooled. Nonetheless, things go from bad to worse. I do not wish to let the lands go, yet… I have a fear of Ireland, Ian. I suppose it comes from my mother and father drowning on their passage home from there.” She shuddered.

  In spite of the dress and the glowing look of maturity, the old Alinor was still there. Ian took her hand and smiled at her. “That is not like you, Alinor. Think how near you came to drowning yourself on your way to the Holy Land. Do you fear that? And I know you used to go sailing for pleasure.”

  “It is true, and it is also true that I do not fear the sea, nor fear drowning. It is Ireland itself I fear—and not, it seems to me, for myself. Ian, why are we speaking of Ireland?”

  “Because that was Oxford’s purpose. He has large property there and, like you, has had nothing from it except complaints since FitzHenry has governed there.”

  “Why should he be different? William has been half crazy over what is happening, Isobel tells me. He has begged and prayed King John to let him go and at least set Leinster to rights, but the king has forbade it.”

  “So Oxford says also. To say it in plain words, Oxford wishes to avoid the king’s commands and for a group of us to go and make peace there—at least on our own lands. To me it seems—”

  “No, Ian! Oh, do not go to Ireland. Not now! I fear—”

  “Certainly not now,” Ian soothed, kissing the hand he held. “I must be married first, you know, and then there are those castellans of Simon’s to settle with. In any case, the decision does not rest with me. Your holdings are small. What Oxford desires is that William of Pembroke should go. That is why he was so hot to come here. He wished to talk to Pembroke without giving John cause for suspicion.”

  A brisk war between her fear for and love of Ian and her passionate possessiveness was fought in Alinor’s breast. Calling a temporary truce, she asked suspiciously, “If he was not urging you to undertake this enterprise, why should he miss a hunt to talk of it with you?”

  “Out of the perfectly reasonable feeling that he had no right to press William of Pembroke to this action under my—or rather our—roof without our knowledge. Oxford will not go himself. That is reasonable, too; he is too old to be of much use. His part, and Salisbury’s, is to prevent John from commanding Pembroke to return home, or declaring him a traitor, or taking any other action that will interfere with Pembroke’s success.”

  “Salisbury thinks well of this plan?” Alinor asked unhappily.

  “So well that he brought Oxford here,” Ian pointed out.

  “I do not know. I do not know. It does sound right and reasonable. If FitzHenry continues unchecked on the path he has taken, we will lose the Irish lands completely. I wish you had not told me. This weighs like lead upon my heart, and yet my mind says it is good.”

  “I think what weighs like lead upon your heart is your tiredness, Alinor. If you will go pig-sticking and riding like a madwoman, with your hair all undone, you must expect a little heaviness of spirit at the end of the day.”

  “What!” Alinor exclaimed, the more readily diverted because she knew her forebodings were baseless and useless. “Do you think I am so aged and decrepit that a hunt can wear me into a lassitude? I will show you yet my strength and endurance. We will see, between the two of us, who first cries, ‘Enough! Enough!’”

  The deep eyes lit. Ian’s grip tightened on Alinor’s hand, and he pulled her close. “Mayhap I will sleep in your bed this night after all,” he muttered.

  “Oh no you will not!” Alinor exclaimed briskly, pushing him away and wrenching her hand free of his grip.

  “Why not, Alinor?” Ian pleaded. “What is the differenc
e between tonight and three nights from now? I have been long without a woman. I want you.”

  She let him see that she was stirred by his appeal, but she nonetheless shook her head. “There is a difference to me. You will have made enough talk by closing the door thus, but that will be mended when I open it, showing all plainly that we remain as we entered.”

  “If that is all that troubles you, I will be quick,” he urged. “Who will know that we were a few minutes more or less in talk?”

  Alinor laughed in his face. “That may suit your need, but what of mine? Quickness is no recommendation to me.”

  “I will content you! I swear it!”

  “Not tonight, you will not,” Alinor reiterated, but with considerable effort.

  “What is it about me that is not to your taste?” Ian cried passionately. “No other woman has ever so denied me, and the others had good reason to do so. Why will you not have me? We are betrothed husband and wife.”

  “Do not be such a fool,” Alinor muttered, stretching her hand toward the latch of the door. “You are greatly to my taste, and I will have you with great pleasure. I will not deny that I desire you as greatly as you desire me. But I will not yield to your lust—nor to mine neither—three days before my wedding. What you desire will be all the sweeter in three days time when it can be had without shame or a closed door or huddling back into clothing hastily shed.” She flung open the door. “Gertrude! Ethelburga!” The maids slipped into sight from where they had been waiting. “Put Lord Ian to bed,” Alinor said shortly. “I will tend to myself.”

  The next morning Ian was down before Alinor rose. When she appeared in riding dress to break her fast after hearing Mass, he ground his teeth. “More pig-sticking?”

  “I hope not,” Alinor replied, smiling sweetly. “My huntsman was told to mark some great stags.”

  He opened his mouth and then gripped it tight shut. Alinor noted his heavy eyes and giggled very faintly. She had been too tired to lie awake, lustful and unsatisfied, and she would be too tired again tonight after the wild ride she expected. Ian’s rangy, wire-hard body desperately needed exercise even more than it needed a woman. Alinor guessed that was more than half his trouble, but he was tied by the leg. He would be wild by Sunday. So much the better. She noted that there had been no talk last night of his heart. All his attention was centered elsewhere.

  By Friday dinnertime, after still another day of idling, Ian was not fit to speak with, as Alinor had expected. The lesser men took to avoiding him; the greater picked their words with care and confined themselves to political subjects that did not raise controversy. At table, Ian had given his attention largely to Lord Llewelyn’s wife Joan, exercising such charm that Alinor saw there was more reason than his beautiful face why no woman ever denied him. She was not even mildly pricked with jealousy. Joan was sufficiently attractive, but she was no match for Alinor, who burned like a flame that dinnertime and evening in shades of crimson, silver embroidered and set with brilliants. Moreover, the light in Ian’s dark eyes matched Alinor’s dress on the occasions when he turned them on her.

  Had Ian been Simon, Alinor herself would have suggested easing his tension by a premarital mating. There was nothing in Ian, however, to suggest Simon’s ability to assess such a thing calmly. Something told Alinor that for all his discomfort and bad temper, Ian prized her resistance above any proof of tenderness that yielding would give. Perhaps it was because most women were so easy to him; he was the one who suggested that they were married already in faith, while Alinor espoused the Church-held view that the deed must exist. Yet to Alinor it did not matter, and she was sure that to Ian it did. He would equate yielding to him now with the possibility that she would yield to some other man for some equally specious reason in the future.

  Nonetheless she was sorry for him. Her eyes dwelt fondly on him, and a half-smile curved her lips as she watched him listening to some tale Sir Giles was telling. Briefly, Ian’s eyes lifted, caught hers, moved back to Sir Giles. Alinor grew a little worried when Sir Giles turned away suddenly and then marched across the hall toward her.

  “How have I offended your new lord, Lady Alinor?” he asked angrily.

  “Offended him?” Alinor repeated.

  “I asked if he would look upon my youngest son and then, if he thought him fit, recommend him for fostering to a good house. Sir Simon did so much for the older boys, and I thought it a reasonable request.”

  “Ian denied you?” Alinor asked in an amazed voice.

  Ian was kind and generous to a fault, and never proud, but it flashed through Alinor’s mind that she had seen him only with his equals or superiors in rank and with such lesser folk as the serfs and villeins or men-at-arms. Perhaps he was high in his manner to vassals and gentle-born inferiors. He might consider such a manner necessary to keep them in their place and obedient to his will. Alinor’s vassals were not accustomed to such treatment, however. In a social situation, Simon, and Alinor herself, had always addressed her vassals and castellans as equals—as friends. They were good men and understood the difference between a conversation and an order.

  “He did not deny me,” Sir Giles replied flushing slightly. “He listened at first, then looked away and began to scowl, and then he asked if I equated my son with a horse, that he should need to inspect its paces before buying. He said that if I believed the boy was ready, he would believe it also. The words were fair enough, but—but—I will speak the truth of my heart to you, Lady Alinor. You have known me long and will not take what I say amiss. His voice and look were such that, had he not been your lord, I would have struck him in the face.”

  “Oh, do not do that,” Alinor managed to get out, and then could control herself no longer and burst out laughing. Sir Giles stiffened still more, drew in his breath sharply, and began to turn away. Alinor clung to his arm, gasping. “Please, please, do not be angry,” she begged. “I am not laughing at you. Indeed, I am not. Ian was easy enough until he looked away, was he not?”

  “He looked a little as if his mind was elsewhere, but, yes, he was courteous enough.”

  “His mind is elsewhere,” Alinor chortled.

  “I am sorry if I intruded my small matter upon some great affair,” Sir Giles said even more stiffly.

  “His great affair is between his legs,” Alinor remarked crudely. “His words were for you and meant as a compliment. His black look was for me. My lord is a little wroth because I insist that we wait for the priest’s blessing.”

  A look of illumination spread slowly across Sir Giles’ face, and he broke into a broad grin. His eyes ran over Alinor. “Poor man,” he said feelingly.

  “I am sure he will do his best for your son,” Alinor added when she stopped laughing at Sir Giles’ sincere sympathy for a tormented man. “What do you desire for the boy?”

  “You know I can give him nothing,” Sir Giles responded soberly. “A horse and armor, a little money. If he does not have a place where he can get honorable service, he must go the tourney route or sell his sword in whatever war he can find.”

  “Let me think upon it,” Alinor said. “William of Pembroke would have taken him, but that is no safe house for the boy to be in at this time. We will find something,” she assured him.

  Later in the evening she noticed that Ian had hobbled over and was speaking earnestly with Sir Giles. Alinor was glad he realized he had offended her vassal and was trying to mend matters. Still, she was very relieved when the good weather broke that night and Saturday was a day of pouring rain. They were all pent within the castle, which could and did lead to minor conflicts, especially among the younger men. Ian, however, had plenty of company and, from the bearing of the men who formed in groups around him, plenty to occupy his mind.

  After dusk had fallen, a guest they had almost despaired of appeared, riding through the pouring rain. Alinor raised her eyes to heaven for help and prayed—it did not seem appropriate to curse. Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, had at last come, as he had promised,
to perform the marriage. With him, however, he brought two more unexpected guests, William, Bishop of London, and Eustace, Bishop of Ely, and Alinor had to find some suitable place to put them.

  “We will be the firmest-wed pair in the entire realm,” Alinor said to Ian as they parted for the night for the last time. “Three bishops should surely be enough to tie fast the knot. Which one of us,” she teased, “did they think would seek to undo it?”

  “Not I,” Ian replied.

  He was standing in the doorway to the small chamber in which he slept. This night he did not argue or plead. Although he ate Alinor with his eyes, he said no more. The silence, the hot eyes, came close to undoing her. Alinor found herself several paces closer to Ian before she realized that she had moved. Still silent, he had stretched out a hand. It trembled just a little. Alinor stared at it. Even his hands were beautiful, she thought. They were slender and long-fingered. Alinor thought of their touch on her body, uttered a small gasp, and fled.

  That night, half laughing, half crying, Alinor blamed herself for her amusement at Ian’s torments. She did not sleep well. The next day, however, was much easier for everyone. By custom, the ladies remained apart from the men. Bread and cheese and wine were carried up to them, and Father Francis came up to say Mass in an improvised chapel while the bishops officiated below. The morning was given to the examination of one another’s dresses, to trying these jewels and those. Alinor’s wedding gown, brocaded gold and orange velvet, was laid out and drew exclamations of envy and pleasure.

  Midmorning, Ian’s squires craved admittance and were bidden to enter. “Bride gift,” passed from mouth to mouth, and the women clustered close. The small casket the boys bore was a work of art worth a king’s ransom in itself, carved of ivory, bound in gold, and set with gems. It was deep for a jewel box. Alinor opened it carefully, looked inside, and drew breath. Pearls, glowing with a life of their own, marvelously matched for color, lay within. She drew them forth, and drew, and drew, while around her sighs changed to gasps. Someone took the box, and someone else piled the strand into Alinor’s hands until both hands were full and the loops fell over. At last they found the clasp, a golden hook that fastened to a short chain that held another marvel—a glowing, sparkling, golden stone as large as a hen’s egg, but flatter, carved into the likeness of a phoenix rising from a bed of flames.