Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  Cornhill was already gone, hopefully to nurse his broken fingers. Saer de Quincy was just going down. Ian saw one of the attackers drag the shield from his arm, another seize his sword. He braced himself for a new onslaught, but there was no need. Without a glance in his direction, the three rode off, losing themselves in the mass of fighting men and clouds of dust. Thoroughly bemused, Ian looked toward FitzWalter, who was still heavily engaged. He was faced with a ridiculous point of honor. Technically it was his duty to attempt to rescue the man.

  Like a gift from heaven came a single knight who called a challenge. Blessing the man, whoever he was, Ian caught the stroke he launched and attended to his own business—but not too energetically. Fortunately, his opponent was not his equal, because Ian was still shaken, now and again, with most untimely mirth. But, between fits of laughter, he watched FitzWalter’s battle. It did not last long. Shield and sword were wrenched from him. Ian parried the blows his blessing aimed at him with inattentive precision. The behavior of the first trio of knights was suggestive but no guarantee of the behavior of this second group. And, for a moment it looked as if they were, indeed, of a different mind, for they turned from FitzWalter and rode toward Ian. However, they did not pause. Swerving off to the right, they left Ian to his mismatched fight.

  With a few powerful strokes, Ian disarmed the country squire who had sought to try his strength. He did not listen to the man’s name. All desire to laugh had left him. He had recognized one of the shields. Sir Robert de Remy was one of the second group of three.

  “Now that,” a pleasant voice behind Ian said, “was very odd, very odd indeed.”

  Ian ground his teeth. “I swear it was none of my doing. I—”

  Leicester laughed aloud. “You need not tell me! Do I not know Lady Alinor’s fine and elegant fingers stirring a pot of soup when I see them? But so far, so well done. Let us finish it now,” Leicester said, not realizing he had stricken Ian mute with his insight. He raised his voice, calling at the top of a pair of healthy lungs, “À Vipont! À Vipont!”

  Chapter Twenty

  The remainder of the tourney was an anticlimax to both Ian and Alinor. Although she had been spared the sight of Ian being prepared for the slaughter by Cantelu and Cornhill, she knew when the worst danger to her husband was past because she saw his enemies ride and limp from the field. When FitzWalter and de Quincy followed soon after, stripped of both swords and shields, it was apparent to her that her plan had worked. Relief from fear should have brought her joy; the king’s barely controlled chagrin should have given her pleasure; instead the only emotion that seemed to remain within her was rage.

  That emotion had its benefits. She sat in a rigid silence, giving no indication that she knew her husband was now safe—or as safe as one could be in the midst of a tourney. No matter when he glanced at her, John could not find any sign of relaxation or satisfaction. As much as he hated it, the king was forced to believe that Alinor had no knowledge of any special reason for her husband’s good fortune. Pure accident or his own skill had saved Ian de Vipont. Had there been tampering with the tourney, John might have found a way to turn it against Ian. He could not bring himself to believe that so besotted a loon as de Vipont could keep any plan he made from his wife. In fact, it was obvious from the strain Alinor was laboring under that she knew the rumored plot against him.

  That thought made John utter a faint, high-pitched whine of rage. When he found out who had fouled his plans with so asinine an arrangement, he would inflict such tortures on them as had not yet been devised even in hell. The phrase, a mere outlet for his current frustration, led to an idea that might be profitable and certainly was pleasant. He could and would make open search for those inept plotters. He would catch them and punish them so that damnation and an eternal sojourn in hell would be a pleasant reprieve from his attentions—and thereby he would clean his own name from any stain of treachery against de Vipont. Good! That was very good. Moreover, Salisbury could do the hunting. Salisbury’s affection for de Vipont was well known. No one would doubt he was honest in his search, or that the king was in earnest about catching and punishing the guilty. And William’s heart would be made easy, too.

  All in all, John decided, the black look easing from his face, perhaps this was for the best. After that scene at dinner last night, if de Vipont had not come safe away, nothing could have stopped men from believing the worst. I should not have allowed my rage to push me into desiring so quick a revenge, John thought. Sooner or later, and it could not be much later, de Vipont would be embroiled in some war or other. Had not William said something about rebellious castellans? Could not the king send help to a loyal vassal? If the help was rejected, perhaps with violence, would not that be treason? Details would need to be arranged—a call for help, perhaps—to lend verisimilitude, but that did not discourage John at all. It was exactly the kind of planning he enjoyed most.

  Despite his total lack of interest in it, Ian was a strong runner-up for the melee prize as well as the prize for jousting. His battle with Albini had been in the heroic style of the romances all loved to hear, and after he had absorbed Leicester’s remark, he was so furious that he hewed down everyone who crossed his path. In the end, the prize went to Arundel, largely because of the unspoken agreement between Pembroke and Salisbury that it would be unwise to cast two days of success for Ian into John’s teeth. It was just as well they made that decision, because Ian did not even wait to hear the results. As soon as the trumpets sounded the end of battle, he rode off the field and directly to his house without even stopping to tell his squires.

  Behind him he left consternation. Owain and Geoffrey had come with Alinor. They saw their master ride off at a spanking pace and had no idea whether to follow him or wait upon his lady. If they left her to come home alone, he would slay them; if her vassals were to accompany her, however, it was their duty to follow Lord Ian. Worse still, if he wanted service and no one was at hand, there would be trouble. Before they could even discuss the matter, a number of bruised and bedraggled combatants were converging on Ian’s colors to render up their pledges for horse and armor ransom. The situation was one neither squire had ever faced before. Was it their duty to take the pledges? How should they explain their lord’s absence?

  Salvation came to them. As welcome as the Mother of Heaven, Lady Alinor rode up just ahead of the slower, more reluctant, defeated knights. A swift question and a frightened answer made the situation all too clear to Alinor. He had gone off to tell his lady he was alive—so delicate a lady, too refined to gird her spirit to see her love die, if that was what was needful. Alinor’s face was set like marble, her eyes and smile as blank and empty as any statue when she greeted Ian’s defeated opponents. To each man she apologized for Ian’s absence, pleading some urgent and unexpected business and begging that they do them the favor of calling at their house on the next day.

  No one believed her; that was not important. No one took offense, either. Several men expressed sorrow that Ian had come to grief and offered any help they were able to give. These offers Alinor rejected graciously and ambiguously, never denying that Ian was hurt and never admitting it, either. Sometime during the procession, Sir Henry and Sir Walter arrived. Had they been less brave men, they would have turned tail and fled when they caught their first glimpse of Alinor’s face. If Ian were sore wounded, they could in some measure be blamed for it, since Alinor had summoned them specifically to support her husband. They waited in an agony of apprehension until the last defeated knight had departed.

  “My lady, my lady, where is he?” Sir Walter begged. “How came he to be so sore hurt? I saw him not an hour since fighting strongly.”

  If Alinor recognized who was speaking to her, she gave no sign of it. “Who said Lord Ian was hurt? Not I. I thank you for your service, it was well and loyally done. You are welcome to stay and pleasure in the court now, if that is your will, or to leave, if you so desire.”

  Sir Henry stared at a mistress he did no
t recognize. Cold thanks were not Alinor’s way. She could be icy in disapproval or blazingly angry, but thanks were always given with smiles and embraces, with laughing eyes and a flooding of warmth. Something was desperately wrong, but he could not even guess at what. “I will stay a day or two,” he said roughly. “If you have need of me, my lady, do you send to my lodging, and I will come.”

  “I also,” Sir Walter echoed.

  “Very well,” Alinor agreed tonelessly. “I thank you.”

  Then, without a farewell or a look at the squires who waited uneasily in the background, she turned her horse and rode away. There was a mad scramble to follow her, men mounting and gathering up equipment that could not be left behind. Her castellans watched her retreating back with open mouths. Such heedlessness of men and property was totally unprecedented in Alinor.

  The act, however, was not a result of heedlessness, shock, or even rage. Alinor simply wished to arrive home without any witnesses. If Ian were not yet there, she would not need to make excuses or explanations. She could retire to her solar and leave Ian to explain his own actions. In fact, her precaution had been totally unnecessary. As Alinor mounted the stairs, she heard the crash of a metal cup striking either floor or furniture, and as she entered the antechamber Ethelburga also burst into it as if she had been catapulted out of the solar. Her exit was followed immediately by a louder crash. Doubtless the wine pitcher had just followed the cup. Light flickered in Alinor’s blank eyes, and a quiver moved the corner of her set lips. It seemed that Ian had not been received exactly the way he had expected.

  “Madam, madam,” Ethelburga whispered, clinging to Alinor’s arm as she started forward toward the doorway. “He is gone mad. Let him cool. Do not go in.”

  Alinor unloosened the maid’s fingers from her arm. Her eyes flashed green fire. “I can give as good as I get. Do not fear for me. Meantime, get you below and order water to be heated and the bath to be brought up.” She had not bothered to lower her voice, and the response was immediate.

  “Alinor!” Ian bellowed, appearing in the doorway. “Get in here!”

  The maid, who had been about to plead with her mistress again, uttered a gasp of terror and fled. Alinor raised blazing eyes to Ian’s face, but decided it would not be wise to infuriate him more by refusing to obey him. It was not fear that made her docile—Alinor had been beaten before and, although she did not like it, she did not fear it—it was the pain under the rage in her husband’s eyes, and the blood, some of it still bright and red, that stained surcoat and armor. Nonetheless, she hissed with irritation when she entered the solar. The rug and the floor were stained with wine, a chair and table were overturned, a valuable pitcher and cup were dented and damaged.

  “Where have you been?” Ian snarled at her.

  “I have been fulfilling your duties,” Alinor replied quietly. “I have been telling the knights you defeated to come here and speak with you tomorrow.”

  “What! You interfering bitch! Did it never enter your greedy mind that I did not wish to take their pledges? How dared you?”

  “Greedy?” Alinor shrieked, her sympathy swamped by renewed hurt and rage. “I am greedy? You took my jewels to give another woman, and you call me greedy! How have I interfered? You disgusting, inconsiderate animal! You defeated those men on the field—and they are honest men, for they came to redeem their honor—and you left them as if you thought them of no more worth than beaten, mangy curs. Are you the only man in the world with skill or pride?”

  The real truth in Alinor’s argument doused the more uncontrollable flames of Ian’s wrath. He had not thought of how his action might appear from the point of view of the beaten men. He stood, clinging to a chair, panting with frustration and fatigue. “How could I take their pledges,” he gasped. “How could I look any man in the face after what you have done?”

  “What I had done?” Alinor repeated, totally at a loss. She could not imagine what Ian was talking about. “What have I done?”

  “You have shamed me and dishonored me.” His voice was trembling, and tears glittered in his eyes, magnifying their dark luster. “You have compounded with my opposition and bought my safety as if I were some feeble half-wit unable to defend myself.”

  “Half-wit!” Alinor exclaimed. “If you can say such a thing, you give yourself overmuch credit. You have not so much as half a wit.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you had no part in the action of those six knights who fell upon FitzWalter and de Quincy? Do you mean to deny that you were the ‘enemy’ who was buying knights to fight ‘against’ me?”

  “No, I do not claim to be innocent of any such thing at all. There is nothing wrong with my wits, however addled yours may be.”

  “I thought that plot stank to heaven. It was so foolish, so crude, that it had to be a jest—”

  “A jest? That was an expensive jest! Of course those men were acting for me. In whose pay did you think they were? The king’s?”

  “Why?” Ian pleaded. “Why did you put such a shame on me?”

  “Oh highty-tighty, high and mighty,” Alinor spat, “because—fool that I am—I would rather stand here and listen to you babble like an idiot than mourn over your dead body. Is that a fair answer?”

  “Do you not think me able to fight my own battles?” Ian roared, stung to rage again.

  “Who interfered with your battles?” Alinor shrieked in reply. “Who lifted a sword, even once, to aid you? Did someone distract Arundel? Did someone aim a blow at Albini during your duel? Did anyone draw away one of the knights when you alone fought two? I ordered one thing and one thing alone—that you were not to be stabbed in the back by men of your own party. Chew that cud, you ox, before you grunt of shame and dishonor.”

  “I will not be made a party—”

  “To what were you made a party?” Alinor cut him off furiously. “Name a dishonorable act that one of those men performed, and I will see that he is called before you and punished as you see fit. Did one launch a single blow at any man in his own party? Say FitzWalter and de Quincy were honest men, riding to your aid because they saw you overmatched. Would the action of those six knights have been wrong? Oh, you braying ass, I have dealt with men like you all my life. I know the meat of honor.”

  “You cut the meat very fine, but your slices stink nonetheless.”

  Alinor shrugged indifferently. “So honor is a bloated corpse here. I am not the one who killed it, and you know that. Will you tell me there was no plot to have you slain on that field?”

  “If there was, it was none of your affair. It was my business.”

  “Oh yes?” Alinor sneered. “And what arrangements did you make to settle that business?” She turned away, then back again, her eyes blazing. “Since you speak of honor, let me remind you of one oath you gave that you seem willing to set aside most lightly. You came to me and offered me marriage that you might shield me and my children from harm. Perhaps the king wished me ill then, but it is nothing to what he feels for me now. You forget full easily that your life is not your own to spend as you please. With you I fall, and Adam, and Joanna. That makes your business my business most nearly.”

  At first Ian did not answer. He came around the chair that he had been holding onto and sat down heavily. His eyes slipped, almost as if he were too tired to hold her gaze steady, from Alinor’s face to the floor.

  “I was not unaware or uncaring,” he said softly at last. “I did what I could. I spoke out, as near to accusing the king as I could, and took his promise—”

  “Pish tush,” Alinor snapped. “I know what you did. I was there. Belike he would not press me to a new marriage. Instead, before a week was out, some fault would be found in me to lay me in prison. And there I would starve to death, and Adam would die also, and Joanna would be used as a bawd before he threw her to some dog he had chosen. Only—”

  “Stop!”

  The cry of pain and horror brought Alinor to her senses. She bit her lip. She had not meant to say that. Ian was t
he kind to carry horrors around in his mind and embroider upon them. He seemed to have bad dreams enough without adding to his store. Alinor came across the room and laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Very well. There is no need to speak of what is past and no longer possible. I did but wish you to know why I meddled in your affairs. Forget it now. In a week we will be gone from here and safe on our own lands. If affairs of state grow hot enough, the king will forget us.”

  Ian’s chest was heaving as if he were still in battle. “I cannot bear it,” he muttered.

  Subduing the temptation to remark nastily that he would not have to bear it, since he would be dead, Alinor unlaced Ian’s mail hood and pushed it back. “If you mean to go to the feast this day, you had better let me sew up what needs sewing.”

  It had occurred to her that Ian’s bad temper had not been generated by any unkindness on the part of his “lady love”. Perhaps he wished to bask in the approval of her smiles. Alinor knew it was impossible to determine which woman it was by watching the court ladies. At least a third of them constantly cast languishing glances in Ian’s direction. Now that she was aware, however, she might watch to see where Ian’s eyes went. She had already given the matter some thought, but could not recall a single particular look. Possibly he had taken especial care, but it was more possible that she had not noticed because she was preoccupied with other matters and, previously, unsuspicious.

  But Ian shook his head. “I cannot go,” he said, and swallowed sickly. “Alinor, let us go away from here. If we ride out now, we can be in Kingsclere before midnight.”

  Alinor was aware of thinking along two different paths at the same time, as one can stand at the fork of a road and see two separate tracks leading out of it. One path thought contemptuously that either Ian had “forgotten” his “lady” again or that one glimpse in a year was sufficient to sustain that holy passion. With the other part of her mind, she castigated herself for her unwise speech. It was absolutely impossible to do as Ian wanted. It would be an open insult to the king to depart without craving leave after they had been received with so much apparent favor. It would be treasonous as well, implying that they had fled because they believed the rumors of plots against them. Worst of all, it would give John the right to recall them and declare them in defiance.