Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  That wonder kept them all occupied until it was time to dress in the finery that had earlier been displayed. Alinor could not help wondering, as Lady Llewelyn, Lady Salisbury, and Lady Pembroke wound the pearls around her neck, whether she would be able to support their weight, but they were not heavy. As light to bear, Alinor thought, as a strong man’s body in the act of love. She was deeply grateful to Ian, not only for displaying the incredible value he set upon her, but for giving her a jewel that Simon had never favored. She wondered now whether this enormous celebration was only for political purposes. Ian was so very kind. He had known of her first wedding, bereft of all ceremony, bereft of guests and of any celebration at all, darkened by an angry King Richard and a miserable, weeping Queen Berengaria. Clever Ian. Had he planned that this should be as great a contrast as possible, that it should wake no unhappy memories?

  If it was his plan, he had succeeded. It was impossible that Alinor should not remember Simon in this moment, but the memory was not sad or bitter. It was of something warm and good, strong and safe, but so very different from what was taking place, from what she felt and expected to feel, that it could wake no unhappiness in her. With brilliant eyes, half smiling lips and light steps, Alinor went down to forge the first firm link in the chain of the new life she was making.

  Everything was different from that first wedding. The happy chatter of the women as they followed her down the stairs, the affectionate kisses Isobel gave her as she placed Alinor’s cloak over her shoulders; William’s sober-sad yet honest approval as he lifted her to her horse; the road, bright in sunlight, frosty cold now that the rain had ended; the people lining the road, shouting joy for her, cheering anew as Ian and the men followed the train of women. The whole road, from the gates of the palisade around the keep to the town itself, was deep in common folk—first her own men-at-arms and the castle servants, many in tears; then the servants and retainers of her guests; then the serfs from the countryside, who threw wheat from their scanty store, the symbol of peace and plenty; then the townsfolk, the better and the lesser. Here and there a flower was thrown, a winter rose, a costmary, an iris, carefully nurtured at home for a little color and joy during the bitter winter months. In all the cold, Alinor was suffused with warmth; her people loved her and wished her well.

  Nothing was a shadow of the past, not even her own voice or Ian’s giving the responses. This time there were no doubts, no fears, no oppression. Alinor heard her responses, and Ian’s, wing clear and firm to the outer circle of witnesses in the church porch, heard the happy “Fiat! Fiat!” of approval roar back in confirmation.

  The women pressed around Alinor to kiss her and wish her well, and the men to kiss and embrace Ian. William of Pembroke said soberly, “God help you; she is a devil unconfined. But if you treat her ill, you must answer to me.” At which Ian did not take offense. It would have been hard to find anything that would offend him that day. Besides, he understood. William had stood as father to the bride, Alinor being totally without male relations to protect her interests. He was not implying any distrust of Ian, as the first part of his statement indicated, merely affirming that he took his responsibility seriously. Sir Giles behind Pembroke laughed aloud. “Lady Alinor can take care of herself; you had done better to have warned Lord Ian to guard himself.” Yet Ian had almost to fight for his right to lift Alinor to the saddle for the return to the keep. Part of the reason for the rush to assist him was, of course, concern for his lameness, but a good part was also affection for Alinor. No man wished her day to be spoiled, and all feared that Ian would falter and drop her.

  He did not, and would not have done so to ease any pain. They rode back, side by side now, through the streets of the town where oxen, sheep and pigs were already near-finished roasting at bonfires on almost every crossing, and huge tuns of ale and coarse wine were being broached. Of all the businesses, only the bakeshops were open. Bread and cake and pies were to be had for the asking. On Alinor’s wedding day, no man, woman or child would go hungry or thirsty or need to beg.

  They were cheered for that, of course, but it was for more than that. There were those who ran along beside Alinor’s mare to kiss her foot or her stirrup or the hem of her gown. Many she called by name. It was as well, Ian thought, that he meant well by his wife. If he had ever doubted that she could have any man she did not like killed or maimed into a helpless hulk, he doubted it no longer. An enemy to the Lady of Roselynde would be safe nowhere, neither in the town nor in the countryside, nor in the keep, either.

  It was plain from the surprise and delight with which Alinor received some of the wondrous dishes presented to her that, although she had planned the meal, she had not planned those. A representation of Roselynde Keep was presented to her, complete in every detail, its walls and towers of pastry, the moat filled with honey, blued with crystallized violets, the sea breaking in a froth of white meringue upon the rocks and beaches below. A representation of the wedding followed, showing the church front, the three bishops with their staffs (two having obviously been crammed in at the last moment), the bride and groom (Alinor smiled; her maids’ tongues had been busy for her orange and gold gown and Ian’s emerald green were faithfully depicted), and the crowd of onlookers. How many extra days and nights of labor, how much thought and ingenuity her people had willingly added to the already onerous task they faced only to give her pleasure!

  The entertainment was as rich as the food. Minstrels had been summoned from everywhere Alinor’s messengers could reach. They played, sang, juggled, danced, and performed miracles of tumbling. Trained bears jigged lumberingly to tunes and were fed honeyed tidbits in reward; dogs formed pyramids, danced together, leapt through flaming hoops. And another surprise awaited Alinor. To her chagrin, she had not been able to engage a true troupe of players. However, before the guests became stupid with food or befuddled with wine, Sir John d’Alberin rose from his place, bellowed for silence and a clear floor, and announced that some acts of mimicry would be performed. It was, he said, a token of affection from Alinor’s vassals and castellans.

  The pieces were hilarious. All, of course, dealt with marriage, and not too kindly, but the ultimate was one about a domineering woman who produced disaster after disaster with unfailing regularity, which her patient husband repaired with equally unfailing ingenuity.

  “How do they dare?” Lady Llewelyn hissed across Alinor’s convulsed husband to the new-made, maligned wife.

  But Alinor was laughing as heartily as anyone else. She knew they dared out of love and trust. Those who wished to shake off her domination were not here. Every man who had come knew he would be expected to renew his vows of fealty publicly before three bishops, the king’s half brother, and the greatest soldier England had, as well as before his brother vassals and castellans, who would thereby be sworn to join with his lady to punish him if he violated those vows. The ceremony was set for the following day, when all the guests would still be present. Some would linger for a few days or even a week more, but many had pressing business and would leave as soon as the swearing was over.

  Through the whole day and the evening when, because Ian could not dance, he spent his time hobbling from group to group to soothe drunken quarrels, there was not a cloud on his brow. Moment by moment, he saw his fulfillment draw nearer. No doubt that Alinor grieved for Simon darkened Ian’s mind, nor had he missed her genuine eagerness for the consummation of their marriage despite her resistance to a premature coupling. It was not until he saw the great ladies approaching Alinor to start the bedding ceremony that apprehension touched him.

  It was not that Ian doubted his skill as a lover in a general way. He knew he was well able to satisfy any normally passionate woman, and he was quite sure Alinor was perfectly normal. Nor was he reluctant to perform his marital duty; in fact, he thought wryly, watching his none-too-sober friends bear down on him, there was his trouble. He was a bit too eager. Again, in a general way, that would not have mattered—but this first time— Fool, he told
himself, think of something else. You will be finished before they get your clothes off if you do not.

  The immediate problem was solved by Ian’s drunken escort. Ian had dispensed with his splint that morning, feeling that it would be an unwelcome adjunct to a wedding bed. His friends, however, were in no fit state to help him up the stairs properly, and the pangs in his knee served, temporarily, to cool his passion. The calming effect did not long outlast his arrival in the upper great chamber where, for lack of space in Alinor’s bedchamber, the disrobing ceremony would take place.

  Alinor, gowned and bejeweled and wimpled in a gold veil so fine that her white skin gleamed through, was an exquisite creature. Alinor, quite naked, except for the black mane that hung to the middle of her thighs, was enough to bulge a man’s eyes and stop his breath. Then the women drew back her hair and lifted it so that all her perfections and blemishes would be clearly visible, Ian’s prompt reaction brought shouts of laughter, applause, snapping fingers, and stamping feet.

  The jests flew thick and fast, the ladies as quick to laugh and top one sally with another as the gentlemen. There was no fault to be found with either party. Alinor’s vigorous life had prevented her pregnancies from marking her. Except that her breasts were somewhat fuller, her belly a little rounder, and a few faint blue lines of stretching were apparent, she might have been an unwed maid. This fact drew some complimentary remarks, but it was Ian’s condition, naturally enough, that called forth most of the comments. It was great fun, but in spite of the roaring fire, it was not comfortable in the month of December to stand naked for long. Isobel saw that Alinor was shivering, and pulled at her husband’s sleeve to point out the bride and groom were cold. Wine had temporarily wiped Simon from Pembroke’s mind.

  “For God’s sake,” he bellowed, “let them go or they will both be as stiff and blue with cold as Ian’s knee.”

  “Wait, wait,” Salisbury shouted, as bedgowns were brought forward to wrap the chilled pair, “what if the knee remains stiff? Will you repudiate Ian for lameness, Lady Alinor?”

  It was a serious consideration, but Alinor had had a few drinks, too. “No,” she responded gravely, but with dancing eyes. “I take cognizance of all stiff parts, knees and otherwise, and I state before witnesses that I will not repudiate my husband if those parts remain stiff.”

  “Alinor!” Ian exclaimed.

  “Quick,” Llewelyn exclaimed, “into bed with them before they can begin to quarrel. I do not wish to spend any time making peace. I have an appetite that needs to be satisfied at once.”

  A few minutes more of chaos terminated with Alinor and Ian side by side in her big bed. One more flurry of laughter and some urgent calls for action, and they were alone. The silence, broken only by the hissing of the flames in the fireplace, was a shocking contrast. Alinor turned her head, still smiling at the last jests, but Ian was staring straight ahead into the dark outside the area illuminated by the night candle.

  “Did I really offend you?” Alinor asked, striving to keep the chagrin from her voice.

  “No, of course not.” He turned now and smiled, but his mouth was stiff and his body tense. “I— I—”

  “What is it, Ian?” Alinor asked, reaching toward him.

  “Do not touch me!”

  Alinor’s eyes widened. That was a protest for a virgin maid, not for an eager man.

  “Oh God!” Ian choked on laughter. “I do not mean that. I mean— Some nights past I swore I would content you. I am not so sure I can.”

  “What?” Alinor shook her head in disbelief and surprise. “How can you say such a thing? Two minutes ago you were showing the whole world how able and ready you are to content me.”

  “I am too ready,” Ian cried, laughing helplessly. “I greatly fear that if I lay one hand upon you or you upon me, my overripe readiness will burst.”

  Alinor giggled, although her breath was coming short and quick. “Think of something nasty,” she suggested, “disemboweled horses, slimy drinking water—”

  But Alinor was not really worried. She knew it would not matter. She had been longer without mating than Ian, and the sight of him, the rough jests, were stimulation enough. She needed no preparing this night; she was as ready as he. He could hardly be too quick for her this time, unless he could not hold himself for even two strokes or three. She leaned closer, as if to whisper more horrors in his ear, and tickled it with her tongue instead.

  That was enough. Ian pushed Alinor flat and flung himself upon her. The movement wrenched his knee cruelly, but he did not feel it then. Once, his shaft slid past her sheath. Alinor shifted eagerly and the second thrust brought him safely home. Together they groaned as if mortally wounded, but neither was dead yet. For one long moment Ian held his breath, straining chest and shoulders upward and away while his hips pressed down, perfectly still. Alinor held her breath, too. Then his head came forward, his eyes opened; his battle had been fought and won. Gently he let himself down upon her, sought her lips; slowly he began to move, seeking the position and rhythm that would bring her to joy.

  “You are no oath breaker,” Alinor said eventually. Her head was nestled comfortably into the hollow of Ian’s shoulder, her whole body pressed against the length of his. Both were exceedingly well pleased with themselves and with each other, but Alinor’s satisfaction was somewhat the keener. For that, although she did not think of it, she had to thank Simon also. Among other bitternesses of loss Alinor suffered, not the least was the loss of the comfort of a warm, strong body beside her in her bed. That emptiness was now filled.

  “It was a near thing,” Ian sighed, grinning, “and I will give credit where it is due. You delayed me not at all in the performance of my promise.” He sighed again, contentedly. Then the arm around her stiffened a trifle. “We left the bed curtains open,” he said in a low voice.

  “What of it?” Alinor asked sleepily. “The children will not come in at this hour.”

  Ian’s lips, parted for speaking, remained parted merely to smile. True enough. It did not matter. This was his bed, his wife, his right. There was no need to hide his desire or his satisfaction from anyone. His! Completely and entirely his! Not to be shared with a legal husband as so many “loves” of the past; all her beauty, all her passion—his. Ian drew a deep breath of happiness and gratitude, for what Alinor displayed was truly a clean passion, not lust. The enormity of her pleasure, the ecstatic cries and writhings were an additional joy to him and no sign of weakness in her. Knowing what pleasure she denied herself, yet she had been able to deny herself. The memory of Alinor’s pleasure sent a flush of heat through Ian’s loins. His arm tightened around her; his hand sought her breast. Quite unaware of the towering virtues with which she had been endowed—which would have given her great amusement had she known—Alinor made a sleepy, contented sound. Ian bent his head to kiss her, but found only her cheek. Satisfied and half asleep, Alinor had slipped back into the familiar role of long-time wife.

  “Have you cried ‘enough’?” Ian whispered.

  The voice, rich and pleasant, but very different from Simon’s bass rumble, reminded Alinor she was a new-wedded wife. “I thought you had,” she replied, stretching sinuously.

  “I have only blown the froth off the beer,” he said. “Now I am ready to drink in earnest.” He started to turn toward her but desisted with a slight gasp.

  Alinor could feel him gathering himself for another effort, and she put a hand on his shoulder to keep him flat. “You hurt your knee,” she murmured. “I should have thought of that, but my mind was elsewhere.”

  “Mine also. That was how I came to hurt it. It does not matter,” Ian insisted.

  “No, of course not,” Alinor agreed, “but there is no reason for you to be uncomfortable. Lie still and let me play the master. You will not regret it.”

  It was a novel idea to Ian. For one thing, his hasty couplings of guilt had left little time for experimentation. Even when husbands are known to be absent, there are always other prying eyes to
avoid. For another, Ian had always automatically assumed the dominant role as a lover and, because he seldom remained long with a mistress, none had known him well enough or securely enough to suggest innovations for which there was neither need nor excuse. He did not answer, but Alinor could feel the tension of preparing to move go out of him.

  She lifted herself on one elbow to lean over him, kissed his lips softly, moved her mouth to suck his throat and then his ear. Her free hand caressed his body, playing it as a skilled minstrel plays a harp. Simon was not a young man, and Alinor had been taught many tricks that wake and build passion. When Ian began to writhe and strain upward toward her, she left off what she was doing with her mouth to murmur, “Quiet. Be quiet. Your pleasure will be greater if you lie still.”

  He was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, gasping air, when she mounted him. Even then she played with him until he moaned aloud and whispered, “Please, please,” but Alinor knew he had no desire to end the sweet torment. He could have ended it at any moment by gripping her and going into action himself. Instead, he cried for mercy, but he lay very still. Only it could not last forever. As Ian’s passion mounted, so did Alinor’s. There came a time at last when she could no longer think of him at all. The indescribable pleasure-pain of climax took her. She plunged upon him, unheeding, gripping his hair, crying aloud.