Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  “Silly sport, that you care nothing for the harm my hunger may do your heir. We will not speak of me! I do not matter! And do not tell me that you will have food brought. I ache from sitting so long on this hard bench. I know I do not matter, but—”

  John took her hand and patted it. His voice was an indistinguishable soothing purr as he spoke directly into his wife’s ear, but the tone was unmistakable. Isabella subsided. Alinor stared unseeingly at the field, her small hope that Isabella would force her husband to declare the jousting at an end seemingly killed. However, it was immediately apparent that the queen had accomplished part of her purpose. John rose and signaled to a herald, who hurried over. Soon the trumpets blew, and word was called across the field that, owing to the lateness of the hour, all challenges “for valor” would be dismissed. Such matters might be as well settled in the melee the next day. Only those who had a real quarrel or a challenge for the king would be allowed to joust.

  Through the announcement, Alinor sat quietly, apparently unmoved. She had heard what John ordered while his attention was on the herald, and her doubts and fears were now under control. Her mind squirreled around behind her impassive face. Was it better for Ian? Worse? If many real challenges for the king’s champion were unanswered, it would be far worse. Ian would have no rest at all. Alinor swallowed nervously. In the shelter of her heavy cloak, her hands twisted together. Ela’s whine in her right ear was a meaningless cacophony, but she was glad to turn her head toward it, glad that her blank, blind eyes would give no satisfaction to the monster who sat on her other side.

  To Ian, the announcement meant nothing beyond a few more moments to sit still. He had reached the stage of exhaustion where his mind was not functioning beyond the recognition of his own call to action and the performance of acts so drilled into him over the years that they were mechanical. He saw Salisbury and Pembroke hurry toward each other, the herald who had charge of calling the combatants join them. He did not wonder what they were about. He simply did not think at all. When the sun’s glare pierced through the eyeslit of his helmet, he merely turned his head a little to block out the ray. He did not realize that only when the sun was very low in the west, would it strike at that angle.

  The trumpets blew again. The herald began to call a challenge aloud. Suddenly, the primitive instinct of self-preservation pierced the fog in Ian’s brain. He had recognized the names of the challengers. The challenge itself was incredible! Fulk de Cantelu and Henry of Cornhill were joint challengers, demanding that the king make good his promise to them, of which King John claimed to be absolved by the Lady Alinor’s marriage. If Lady Alinor was not free, they claimed an equivalent heiress must be offered in her place. Even Ian heard the roar from the loges. He was awake now, unmercifully aware of the grinding pain in his left knee and left arm, the miserable ache of his whole abused body. He was aware of a dry mouth, of laboring breath. Whatever the king’s purpose, those two men intended to kill him if they could. Then no equivalent heiress would be needed. Alinor herself would be the sacrificial lamb.

  Ian touched his tired horse with a spur, then had to rowel the beast harder to make it move. Just as he started, he caught sight of Owain running across the field toward the herald. He almost called out to him to stop, bothered by some vague notion that his squire would say he was too tired; then he remembered the arrangements he had made when he was still capable of thought. The herald called a pause while the king’s champion changed horses. Ian caught just a glimpse of a horseman riding up to Pembroke as he went around the back of the tent where the fresh destrier was tethered. He felt a single flash of amusement. That must have been either Fulk or Henry protesting. Whoever it was would receive short shrift from Pembroke. The sluggish gait and hanging head of the mount he was riding were mute evidence that Ian was not seeking any unnecessary delay.

  His amusement evaporated when he needed to dismount so that his saddle could be shifted. Owain and Geoffrey had to help him, and if Owain had not held him upright, he would have fallen when Geoffrey ran to get him a drink. He did not protest that the wine was not watered this time. In fact, from the way it burned going down his gullet, he suspected it had been liberally laced with usquebaugh. Mounting was even more hellish, but once in the saddle, the rearing and bucking of the fresh stallion made him feel better. It was as if some of the horse’s fierce energy was transmitted to him. Still, it would be a very near thing if he managed three passes against Fulk and Henry. These were not country squires trying to regain a parcel of land nor fresh young men seeking to establish themselves as jousters.

  As soon as Ian came around the tent, the trumpets sounded. That was a piece of luck. It permitted him to start his horse some dozen yards from the head of the list. Another time and place or against another man, Ian might not have seized the advantage. Now, he jabbed his horse hard and fewtered his lance as he moved. There was no need to look for weaknesses; he doubted his opponent had any.

  The shock was appalling. Ian heard his saddletree creak as he slammed back against it, but his arm held, his own lance held. His teeth clenched as he felt his body lift, and he forced himself forward against the pressure. Crack! The sound was as sweet as an angel’s voice, and the pressure against him released suddenly. Another crack. That was not so sweet. His own lance splintered also. He heard the roar of appreciation from the crowd as the forward leap of his destrier saved him from falling forward. One pass.

  Ian brought his horse up short, turned and galloped back to seize a new lance. The wine burned in his blood. He was ready before Henry and deliberately fretted the impatient stallion, so that the moment the other started and he could loosen his rein, it leapt forward almost at a full gallop. The second shock, to his surprise, was not so bad. He was not even moved in his seat and, although he did not unseat his opponent either, he did slat off the lance and have the pleasure of seeing Henry twisted under the impact of his own lance.

  The third time it was Henry who started first. Ian was a little surprised, because Owain had been right at the head of the lists with his fresh lance. Even the gray devil Ian was riding could not compensate for the speed Henry’s horse had developed. Desperately, Ian swung his legs back a little to brace against the impact better. His knee screamed as he gripped the saddle, but his eyes remained fixed on the point of the bobbing shield that he must hit. Bad! He could feel himself tip. It would be a bad fall! And then the blessed crack of overstrained wood again. One more desperate effort—

  It was the roaring of the crowd that told Ian he had unhorsed Cornhill. The effort he had expended had brought brilliant flashes and black spots to obscure his vision. He tightened his rein, felt the speed of the horse slacken. Oddly, in spite of the peculiarity of his vision, he did not feel faint. There was no need for him to clutch at the pommel of his saddle to keep from falling. Three passes.

  Only three more. For the first time, a little spark of hope that he might succeed flickered in Ian. It seemed to set the drink he had taken afire in his blood again. Think of it! Instead of seeing him humiliated, John would have to give him the prize. Ian was not sure how many men he had unhorsed today, but he knew it was many more than any other jouster. If only his vision would clear completely. Intermittently now he could see, but his eyes were still not trustworthy. No, he would not be granted time enough. Owain was thrusting another lance into his hands just as the trumpets blew. Ian’s jab at his horse was vicious.

  He was not surprised when he felt his lance slip along Fulk’s shield. He knew he had not been able to keep a steady aim. Instinctively, as the metal screeched among the bosses of Fulk’s shield, his legs tightened to hold him steady against the blow he would receive, but the pain in his knee was nearly unbearable. His right knee thrust all the harder, and the horse, war trained, veered sharply toward Fulk’s mount, snapping and trying to rear midstride to strike with its hooves. The shock of contact twisted Ian in the saddle, but the abrupt change of angle produced by his mount’s action and the response of Fulk’s destri
er allowed the lance to slip away. Four passes.

  Because he knew there was no point in being first at the head of the list, Ian checked his stallion’s pace and walked it back. He did not care what anyone thought now. Every man who had ever fought at all understood what his condition must be. To walk the horse might gain him a minute or two of rest, and that might gain him a victory. He was so close now. When he reached down to take the lance Owain held, he shook his head slightly. The squire could not have looked more worshipfully at God. And he has served with me long enough to know better, Ian thought. Nonetheless, even though he knew better himself, it was a spur to his pride. No matter how foolish, it was a more cogent reason to succeed than all the real good that might be accomplished by a successful run.

  Ian fewtered his lance and, quite deliberately, allowed his shield to tip inward, as if his arm was too weary to hold it straight. This was near to the truth, but not quite true. He knew his left leg was beyond use to brace him. Thus, he could not endure the full impact of a tilting lance. He could only use the desperate device Simon had once shown him. He could hear the rich bass voice.

  “Only if your arm be broken or your collarbone, and you cannot hold any blow off with the shield. Then, when the lance strikes, you must twist so, and lift your right elbow out so, and then, if the shield swing free enough and your timing is very nice, very nice, indeed, then the lance will slip off between your body and your right arm. Of course, if your timing is not so nice, you will have your belly ripped open or your right arm torn off. It is not a device I would recommend. In war, if death be the only other way, a man might use it—I have. In a tourney, better, far better, take your fall and pay your ransom; you can afford it.”

  Only the ransom to be paid this time was too high—King John’s gloating satisfaction, the light in his squire’s eyes, a whole day of battering and torment gone for nothing, Alinor’s safety, or if not hers, that of some other innocent woman. No, Ian would not pay that ransom. He roweled his destrier and took as steady an aim on Fulk’s shield as he could. He had to hit fair this time. One more time, he told his tired body. One more time pays for all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alinor did not know whether she wanted to kill or kiss Lady Ela. She never saw the last pass of tilting that overthrew Fulk and won Ian the rich prize the king had offered. Quite suddenly, when that pass had started, Lady Ela had cried out, “I am shivering! I am shivering!” Alinor’s eyes had been drawn to the sharp sound involuntarily, and when she looked back toward the men, there was a maid standing right in front of her, blocking her view of the field while she rubbed Lady Ela’s hands. By the time Alinor had shoved the maid aside, it was all over.

  At least Alinor had no doubt, even momentarily, about what the outcome was. The roars of approval from the loges would never have been uttered for Fulk, nor, even if the man had been well-loved instead of well-hated, would they have been uttered for a fresh challenger who overthrew a much tried and overworn jouster. Besides, among the roars, she heard one angry mutter that the “stinking, slimy snake had what he deserved for so scurvy a trick”. Alinor realized that Fulk had tried some device of which the noblemen disapproved. If Ela had known of that through some rumor, she had done what she could to save Alinor from seeing her husband struck down. She had also saved Alinor from displaying any overviolent pleasure in the outcome and thereby exacerbating the royal temper even more.

  The latter problem was eliminated when Geoffrey came tearing across the field to summon Lady Alinor to her husband’s assistance.

  “My lady, he came down from his horse smiling and—and then he fell, and we could not wake him,” the boy whispered, trembling all over.

  Alinor rose at once and curtsied to the king, who did not even bother to hide his satisfaction. Angry words rose to her tongue, but it was more necessary to get to Ian at once than to tell the king what she thought of him. And it did pass her mind also, that it would do Ian more harm than good to show John openly her hatred and contempt. She made some brief formal apology, which was accepted with a self-satisfied nod.

  The king had hoped that Ian could be finished in the jousting, but he was not really surprised or disappointed when that did not happen. An experienced jouster, even a tired one, is seldom killed, although if Fulk’s trick had worked, it might have been fatal. Had Ian been unhorsed, the chances for a sad outcome would have been much greater; for example, a man could be trampled when his opponent returns to help him. Ian’s own horse had nearly killed a young jouster early in the day. However, John had far more elaborate plans laid than an “accident” while jousting. His one concern had been that Ian might be severely enough injured, instead of being killed, to prevent him from fighting in the melee the next day. He knew that had not happened. Everything was working out for the best. De Vipont would be sore and stiff and clumsy, but he would have no wound to which he could point as an excuse. Tomorrow, he would fight and die, and no one would be able to point a finger of blame at anyone.

  Lady Ela watched as Alinor and Geoffrey moved toward the jouster’s tent, but her eyes were on the boy. Alinor’s hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, and her head was bent as she spoke to him. He looked different than the glimpses Ela had caught of him when he was in Isabella’s service. She had not helped him then, when he needed help so badly. Now she blamed herself bitterly for refusing to take him into her home, but at the time she had still been childless, and she had had some crazy fear that William would try to make Geoffrey heir to her father’s lands and would come no more to her bed. Now she had a son of her own, and she could also judge her husband more rationally. She had been a fool to hate that poor woman, dead before Ela herself had married William, and to transfer her spite—as she had done—to the innocent child was unforgivable.

  William had accepted her refusal to take his bastard into her care without argument, but he had not really forgiven her—not until he saw the boy at Alinor’s wedding. That was another debt Lady Ela owed Lord Ian and his wife. Her eyes slid sideways toward her brother-in-law. How she hated him! Sometimes when she and William sat beside John at state dinners, she became really ill with the passion of hate that burned in her. Somehow, someday, she would show William what that creature really was. Somehow, someday, she would destroy that doting love that still saw only an unhappy baby brother instead of the poisonous viper into which the child had grown. William still sought to save John from himself, but it was far too late for that. There was nothing left to save.

  Meanwhile, Alinor was saying comfortingly to Geoffrey, “I watched most carefully. Lord Ian has taken no fatal hurt, I promise you.”

  The promise was easy enough to redeem. When she and Geoffrey arrived, Ian was already sitting on a campstool, cheerfully arguing with Salisbury and Pembroke about attending the king’s feast that evening.

  “What?” he was protesting. “Will you deprive me of receiving in person the one and only tourney prize I am ever likely to achieve?”

  His lips were smiling, but when his eyes moved to Alinor, their expression curbed the hot speech she was about to utter. Later that night, she called herself a fool a hundred times over for yielding to him. Had she known why he insisted on attending, she would have set her men on him to hold him down by force. When they first reached home, however, the idea did not seem so unreasonable. Although Ian’s knee was swollen, and he groaned dismally on getting into a hot bath, he seemed lively enough. Alinor did wonder whether his eyes were too bright, but he was taking so much pleasure in recounting the maneuvers that had saved him one time or overthrown an opponent another time that she had not the heart to bid him be still.

  Later, she blamed herself for not recognizing the feverish activity of exhaustion. She had seen it often enough in Adam, but she did not expect it in a grown man. It carried Ian through the ride back to the castle, which he made on a quiet palfrey with his left leg hanging out of the stirrup, and through the groups that rose from their places at the tables to greet and congratulate him and to
ask anxious questions about why he was using a crutch. They were rather late; the meal was on the table and half eaten, but portions were eagerly provided for them. Alinor began to have doubts when Ian would not eat, but he was still talking and laughing feverishly. When the prize was brought to him, nervous energy lifted him to his feet to make a speech of acceptance.

  “I thank you, my lord, for the honor you have done me, and I accept this prize as a token of the far greater prize I have won. Remember, my lord, that by overthrowing those who claimed her, I have won on the field of battle God’s sanction to my marriage with Lady Alinor and, more than that, His sanction, to which I am sure you will add yours, that Lady Alinor will be forever free of any forced choice of husband. If I should die tomorrow, or the day after, or even ten years, or twenty, or fifty hence, Lady Alinor, by God’s will, must be free to act as she chooses—to marry or not to marry, and if she marry, the man to be of her free choosing, not from any proffered list of suitors.”

  The hall was as silent as if it were empty. Men and women with food in their mouths forebore to chew; men and women with cups at their lips forebore to swallow. All waited on the silent, staring king.

  “Come,” Ian urged in ringing tones, “I have saved you a mort of money and contested lands this day. Will you confirm my prize to me before this honorable concourse of gentlefolk?”

  What answer the king would have made had he been left to his own choice was questionable. However, into the silence came a low whisper from the back of the room: “What was won today will be lost tomorrow.” Had even a draught stirred the hangings that voice would have been lost, but in the aching silence that followed Ian’s challenge to the king, the words hissed through the hall like the whisper of the Father of Evil.