Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  That he should permit or encourage such a solution to his problem simply never occurred to Ian. Subconsciously, he was incapable of failing to defend himself to the uttermost in a battle situation. He could hold himself back from fighting at the peak of his skill and power—as he did toward the end of the duel with Arundel, as he did in any training session with his squires in mock combat—but he did not know how to fake a defense. Moreover, such an act would smack to him of cowardice. However reasonable and logical it might seem, however unlikely that anyone but himself would ever know what he had done, he could not do it nor even think of it other than as a jest. He would know. He would be smirched in his own eyes. He would begin to sink down into what his “unremembered” father had been.

  Besides, Ian was enjoying himself. As activity loosened his cramped muscles, his normal pleasure in combat swamped any thought outside the duel itself. The field was opening up as pairs of fighting knights advanced and retreated beyond the original close-packed lines. Pembroke’s nephew, Sir John Marshal, moved in from the right to engage Arundel, and Ian found himself challenged by the Earl of Wenneval. He had never crossed swords with the gentleman before, although he knew him as one of John’s and Salisbury’s intimates. A decent man, although not too clever, was Ian’s judgment. Nonetheless, he fenced cautiously. Stupidity did not necessarily imply inability in arms. Look at that blockhead Arundel. He was as fine a fighter as you would look for anywhere.

  The paradox did not exist in Wenneval, however, Ian soon found. The man was mediocre in skill as well as in person and mind. Ian feinted viciously with his shield and, as Wenneval brought his own shield wide to counter the blow, raised his sword to strike Wenneval’s weapon from his hand from the inside. At the last moment, however, Ian remembered that Wenneval had wanted Alinor once. Having gained that greatest of all prizes for himself, Ian was ready to forgo the lesser one of Wenneval’s ransom. Let one of the poorer knights to whom the money would mean something take him. He tapped Wenneval’s fingers and wrist—not too gently, but not hard enough to hurt him or to knock the weapon from his hand—turned his sword and thrust at the exposed ribs on the right.

  Without touching Wenneval, Ian pulled his sword back, lifted it slightly in salute, and kneed his destrier into a sharp turn to the left. Had Wenneval wished to continue engagement, he could have followed; that he did not probably indicated that he had known himself outclassed. Ian’s eyes ranged over the shields immediately available, seeking the device of a man with whom he would enjoy matching skill. Sir Walter, who had been on his left, was now behind him, and Sir Henry had charged right past Wenneval and was fighting well ahead, bellowing like an enraged bull. Alinor obviously knew her men. Where Leicester was, Ian had no idea, but Leicester had a cool head. Still further left, Robert de Ros was fighting two knights of the Earl of Warenne’s retinue. Ian spurred the gray destrier in that direction, calling a challenge.

  The young knight was no match for him. Ian had him unseated in six strokes, but he did not pause to take his yielding. If the man could catch his horse and mount again, let him go on fighting. Ian did not care a pin who won the day—he had done all he was going to do in the king’s name—and he certainly did not want to take horse and armor ransom from someone who might have to borrow to pay it. He never knew whether his gesture had any effect beyond transferring the ransom he had spurned to someone else’s purse, because he was set upon by two knights he did not recognize. Plainly, they were fighting as a team and, equally plainly, they planned to take him if they could.

  Their skill, however, was not equal to their intentions. Ian brought both knees forward and prodded his mount hard in the shoulders. Up went the destrier, shod hooves slashing at the head of the closest horse. Well braced against the move, Ian did not even look in that direction. Instead he repeated the move he had made against Wenneval on the second knight. This time, however, he did not hold his hand. His concession to the spirit of the tourney was to turn his blade so that the edge would not sever fingers and wrist. A most satisfactory yowl greeted the landing of his blow.

  “Yield,” he shouted, as he presented the point of his sword at his disarmed opponent’s chest. Simultaneously, he swung his shield back and up to guard a blow from the other side.

  “Yielded!” came the reply. A name followed, but Ian did not heed. If the man was honest, he would seek Ian out after the tourney was over and make arrangements to pay his ransom. If not, he would ride back home, less a sword and with a shadow on his conscience. To Ian, it did not make any difference. His attention was all for the other knight of the pair, who was a somewhat better swordsman. That duel took longer, but eventually ended the same way. Again Ian did not wait for assurance of whom he had bested. Ahead he could see the colors of Philip of Albini, a gentleman whose fighting skills he respected as deeply as he deplored his politics. Albini’s head turned toward Ian’s shouted challenge, and he spurred forward eagerly. Ian drew breath. This would be a duel worth while.

  Neither fear nor rage can remain at fever pitch for very long, particularly in a warm and open person. Very soon after Ian crossed swords with Arundel, Alinor found herself more interested in the action than in her own emotions. Idiot though he was, she could not forbear a swelling pride in her husband. If Ian did not have the enormous strength of Simon, he was quicker and more graceful. It was thrilling to see him hold so famous a warrior as Arundel at bay more and more easily. Nor was the generosity of Ian’s rescue of Robert de Ros and his failure to demand yielding of his opponent lost upon Alinor.

  Still, she had not forgotten Ian’s danger. She uttered an oath under her breath when she saw Sir Henry charging ahead to engage, all careless of his lord’s safety. Sir Walter, however, was not far from Ian, and Robert of Leicester, although well to the right, seemed to be forcing his opponent in Ian’s direction. Vesci’s men, undisciplined and caught up in the battle, were scattering. Anxiously, Alinor’s eyes turned to the opposing forces, seeking there the insurance she hoped she had purchased. At first, she did not find what she sought, and fear made her bite her lips again. Hurriedly, she looked back at the place Ian had held. A gasp was drawn from her as she saw the team of knights bear down upon him.

  “Too soon,” she told herself, “it is too soon. Nothing will be done so early. The stinking cowards will wait until he is tired and until the dust rises enough so that their filthy treachery will be better concealed from all eyes.” Nonetheless, she watched with quickened breath until it was certain that Ian was in no trouble. Then her eyes searched the field again. Surely, surely, her trust had not been misplaced. But she could not find the drab surcoat, the battered and besmirched shield with half-obliterated emblem that had been decided upon as the best concealment for Sir Guy’s real identity.

  He had to be there. He had to be—unless the young fool had been carried away by the fighting like Sir Henry. I will kill him, Alinor thought. If Ian dies because of his carelessness, I will kill him by inches over years and years of torture. Perhaps it was not his fault. Perhaps he had been attacked and taken prisoner. Would that young fool’s honor keep him off the field? Would he let Ian die for some stupid point of proper behavior? What of the other men Sir Guy had been supposed to enlist to help him? Where were they? And who were they? She had not had time to discuss the details with Sir Guy. There was a limit to how often one could go to market and worse, each meeting increased the chance that someone who had heard Sir Guy’s tale would see their meetings and guess the source of the rumors he was spreading.

  One more fruitless sweep and Alinor could look no longer. Ian drew her gaze like a magnet. A tense moment when she could not find him at his old position melted into relief when she saw him safely engaged with Albini. A hysterical giggle rose in her throat as her own words echoed in her mind. Imagine calling a duel with Albini being safely engaged! Albini was a clever and powerful warrior. He had had Simon’s respect, and that was not easily come by. In the heat of a spirited combat, Ian might well be severely injured. But not k
illed, Alinor thought. Albini would be no part of that kind of treachery, even though he was of five or six different minds about whom he would support in any political crisis.

  There was a particularly ferocious passage of arms, which brought both Albini’s destrier and Ian’s to their haunches so that the horses were nearly as much engaged in battle as the men. Alinor sobbed aloud once as a cloud of dust arose and obscured the combatants. Perhaps it was not safe for Ian to be engaged with Albini. All his attention would be concentrated on so worthy an opponent. The fierceness of the action would conceal him from his friends. His back would be naked to anyone despicable enough and sufficiently lost to honor to attack him.

  Alinor knew that was a silly idea even as she thought it. No matter how concentrated Ian and Albini were, they were too much men of war not to see someone attacking from behind. In any case, the very violence of the duel drew the attention of the fighters nearby, so that some, by mutual consent, suspended their own battles to watch, and even those who were too near the conclusion of their own fights to give over, drew away. A space opened around Ian and Albini, and the shouts and general clangor of metal against metal diminished until only the battle noises of the principals were loud in that area. No one could now approach without being entirely obvious to spectators and judges alike. The cloud of dust diminished also, since there were no other horses, no other furiously moving bodies to keep it suspended.

  Both men were now clearly visible, and both had been slightly wounded. A trickle of blood blackened Ian’s sapphire blue surcoat from the ribs of his right side. A similar trickle stained Albini’s high on the shoulder. Neither seemed aware of, or in the least impeded by, the cuts. At the moment, the horses were almost still as both men stood in the stirrups and hammered at each other with great, slashing strokes. Then, almost as if by some mutual signal that no one else could see, the destriers plunged into violent action again.

  As the horses reared, Ian launched an overhand blow. Albini lifted his shield to catch it, simultaneously leaning out to the right to gain a freer swing at Ian’s unprotected side. Possibly the edge of his shield struck the horse, or possibly the rider’s position unbalanced the animal, but Albini’s destrier gave a terrified neigh and crashed to the ground. Ian uttered a cry of consternation, loosed the handgrip of his shield and grabbed for the rein that was fastened to his pommel. In his efforts to prevent his horse from savaging the fallen rider and mount, he almost brought the beast down. By a contortion that very nearly unseated Ian, the gray kept his feet, plunging and snorting with fury.

  In the moments that it took Ian to get his horse under control, Albini had extracted himself and was urging his destrier to its feet again. Ian rode back. The unmounted man raised his shield, but Ian’s sword hung straight down, clearly signaling that he would not strike.

  “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

  Albini lowered his shield. “I will thank you for the courtesy if you will give me leave to mount.”

  “My lord, that horse is not fit,” Ian replied, watching the destrier’s struggle to rise. Then he laughed. “If you will have it no other way, I will yield to you.”

  That drew an answering laugh from Albini and assuaged his angry frustration. “If it could get me one of those gray devils you ride, I could almost bring myself to accept. But you teach me courtesy, de Vipont. I yield me.”

  “No you will not,” Ian responded promptly, “for a mare’s son has failed, not your mother’s. You as near overmatched me as I do not like to admit. We will meet some other time.”

  The horse was now on its feet, but something had been severely strained, for it was limping. So, Ian realized, was Albini. He must have hurt his leg when the horse fell. Without more words, Ian accompanied him to the edge of the field to be sure no one would try to take advantage of his condition, and then took his leave with a few polite platitudes. He was in the best of spirits. The battle with Albini had been most stimulating, but also rather exhausting. It was very convenient that Albini’s horse should fall. It had provided him with a needed restful interlude. He held his horse a moment, scanning the field. The dust was much worse. He had not the faintest idea where his friends were. On the other hand, most probably his enemies did not know where he was, either.

  In the next few moments it was proved that the latter expectation was too sanguine. As soon as Ian realized he would not be able to pick a likely candidate for his attentions from the sidelines, he rode toward the nearest opening in the mass of battling men and moving horses. He was a little surprised when no one rode out to meet him. He had assumed that, since he could be seen, someone would hurry to make capital of the fatigue from his recent exertions. However, it was not until he was swallowed up into the dimmer air near the center of the field that anyone showed an interest in crossing swords with him. He was again challenged by two knights, and this time he had little hope of an easy or quick victory over them. Fulk de Cantelu and Henry of Cornhill were not novices, and they were seeking to revenge themselves for their unexpected loss in the jousting lists. If they were successful in their enterprise, Ian knew he would not come alive off the field.

  Nonetheless, Ian had none of the sense of despair that had gripped him the previous day. His experience in war was wide and varied. He was still relatively fresh. The nick in his side was giving him no trouble. Cheerfully he shouted aloud the names of his attackers, swung his horse wide and spurred it sharply, so that it leapt forward toward Henry’s right side, leaving Fulk, who was on Henry’s left, blocked by his own partner. The surprise generated by this move and the unexpected angle of Ian’s attack permitted him to land two mighty blows. One caught Henry on the helm, and the other smashed into his ribs. Both helm and mail held—the armor was of the best quality—but Ian heard the man cry out and knew he was hurt.

  Wisely, Ian made no attempt to follow up that success with any further effort to belabor his opponent. Henry was hurt but by no means unable to fight back or defend himself. Prodding with his left knee and spurring with his right heel, Ian turned his mount still further in the direction he was headed so that he was now behind Cornhill. Meanwhile, Fulk had recovered from his surprise and ridden forward around Henry to come up on Ian’s left side. The move was grossly unimaginative; in fact, it was exactly what Ian hoped and expected.

  Because Ian had sense enough not to linger in his duel with Henry, even though it seemed to hold the promise of the quick elimination of one opponent, Fulk found himself behind his intended victim. His joy at seeing Ian’s unprotected back did not last long. Ian had leaned forward, swung both legs back and prodded his stallion’s haunches. Promptly the beast lashed out with both hind legs. It did not catch Fulk’s mount in the head, as Ian hoped, but one shod hoof did make contact with the other stallion’s shoulder. In response, the animal reared and Fulk’s hopeful stroke went awry.

  Shouting curses, Fulk wrestled his horse down, prepared to strike again at a man he thought unable to turn in time to defend himself. But the moment Ian’s destrier had his back hooves on the ground, Ian made him rear upright and turn on his hind legs. Fulk’s sword met a ready shield, and the horse, coming down, struck Cornhill’s mount on the left hindquarter. Startled, Henry’s destrier plunged away to the right, again leaving Ian momentarily with only one opponent.

  Not for long, Ian thought bitterly, as his eye caught half a dozen knights riding through the press of fighting men. They looked neither right nor left for opponents. They rode straight as an arrow’s flight toward Ian and his two challengers. John’s hired killers, Ian thought. Viciously he spurred forward. This was no time for the niceties of tourney fighting; this was war, where the only good enemy was a dead one. Invigorated by rage, he launched a fusillade of blows at Fulk while he roweled his horse unmercifully. Too busy guarding himself to spur his destrier forward and out of the way, Fulk came suddenly to the end Ian had planned for him. The gray horse struck Cantelu’s mount just in the barrel of the belly. Instinctively, the stallion curved its ne
ck to bite and tried to rear. Ian thrust hard. Fulk twisted to present his shield, leaned back—and the horse went over.

  Never pausing a moment in his roweling, Ian charged toward the oncoming knights. Suddenly, from behind him, he heard his name called aloud twice. A rush of relief was immediately swamped by shock. The voice was not that of Leicester or Vesci. It was FitzWalter, who was shouting for reinforcements. Ian knew his one real fear had been realized. The two plots against him had been combined, either deliberately or by accident. The bitter realization nearly undid him at once. Turning his head to see if it was really FitzWalter not only provided him with proof that it was, but added the unwelcome information that Saer de Quincy was already at FitzWalter’s side. Ian had no delusions about how this must end. Six before and two behind were more than any one man could handle. And turning his head permitted Cornhill, who had mastered his horse and his own hurts, to strike a blow against which Ian was unguarded.

  A shout of triumph from the oncoming knights was an unexpected blessing. Ian’s sword came up in time to deflect Cornhill’s blow, which would certainly have cut his throat if it had not completely severed his head from his body. It took him in the shoulder, but glancingly. The gasp Ian uttered had nothing to do with the pain of the blow. It was a sound of sheer surprise as the six-man ram that had been thundering toward him neatly split in two, detoured around Henry and himself and, three on a side, took on FitzWalter and de Quincy.

  It took Ian ten minutes to finish off Cornhill instead of five, because he was so consumed by laughter that half his blows were ineffective. In spite of his amusement, he was horribly aware that his danger was not materially decreased. The fact that one set of plotters had eliminated the second set in the mistaken belief that they were coming to Ian’s rescue, did not change the fact that there were six men behind him who intended to kill him. Finally, Ian struck the sword from Henry’s hand and had the satisfaction of hearing him yell again and seeing that he made no move to reach for the mace fastened to his saddle. Ian let his horse run past, then wheeled it round.