Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  “How would you have me speak? Simon was not dead four months. I knew what had been between you. Was that false? Were you ready to speak of love?”

  Alinor tried to think back. “It was not false. Oh no! But because it was so good, so very real, I was the more empty, the more ready— Oh, I do not know. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps talk of love then would have been too soon, but later—”

  “I tried, more than once. You would not listen. You turned away, or turned to ice, or spoke of other things. And what of you? You blame me, but did you offer me a word of love?”

  “I thought the same, that you did not wish to hear of love from me.”

  “Why?” Ian asked, really amazed. “What did I do or say to make you think that?”

  “For one thing, you would not come next or nigh me all those weeks before our wedding,” Alinor said petulantly.

  That broke the tension. Ian whooped with laughter. “And, wise woman that you are, you did not see the cause for that? Was it not plain enough that I was ripe for rape?”

  “I saw that clear enough, but—but that is not love, Ian.”

  “How right you are—which was why I spent all those weeks sleeping on the cold ground, eaten alive by lice, and bored to death. But I still do not see why, if you were angry about the necklet, you did not speak of it. I took it in haste, Alinor, because there was no time to buy anything, and I knew we did not have gold or silver sufficient in the house to content Lady Mary. If you had reminded me, I would have given you its worth, or bought you another, or redeemed that one.”

  “You know I do not care for that. It was not even something Simon had given me. I do not want it back. If it bought knowledge that saved you one bruise, I have its value a thousand thousand times over, beloved.”

  “Then why?” Ian burst out, unwilling to ask, but driven. “Why did I become a stranger to you? Why did you freeze when I touched you, as if I were a ravisher? Why did you weep thereafter, as if I had soiled you?”

  Instead of showing signs of anger, hauteur, or renewed coldness, Alinor blushed fiery red and hung her head. Ian watched her, enchanted by an aspect of his wife he had never seen before.

  “I was jealous,” she whispered.

  “Jealous?” Ian asked gently. “How? Of whom? I had not been out from under your eye for a moment—at least, not a moment that you did not know where I was and what I was doing. And, in truth, Alinor, you leave me no strength for such sly games.”

  “I was not jealous of your body. I knew you were content with what I gave you, and for when I was not by—I do not care. A man must eat and drink and piss and shit and couple—that is nature. I was not even jealous of your heart. I suppose I knew you loved me as men love earthly women. You will laugh at me.”

  “I swear I will not.”

  “I thought you held some dream of love, some woman more precious, more perfect than I—and that is not hard to find—in some inner place that I could never reach. I was not angry, Ian. I was ashamed that I could let some soft dream of the past change me. I strove to be a better wife, more of what a man desires, not so quarrelsome or headstrong—”

  “Good God! You were my dream, Alinor. Always you and only you—just as you are.”

  Alinor put out her hand, and Ian took it. He drew her gently, but she put her other hand on his shoulder to resist without resisting him. “I have something more to say, something for which it is even harder to find words that will carry the true meaning. Ian, I loved Simon as much as a woman can love a man. I would not have you think I forget him or that I am disloyal to him. But there was, between Simon and me, thirty years. There was as much of father and daughter between us as of husband and wife. I did not see it then. I see it now only because what is between you and me is—is so very different. I love you, Ian, as a young woman loves a young man—and for me it is the first time of such loving.”

  Ian did not reply to that. There was nothing to say, fortunately, because he could not have spoken anyway. He took her face between his hands and gently and carefully, as gently and carefully as one would handle a fragile glass object, rare and precious, he kissed her and drew her down beside him. For a long time neither slept; their content was too great to need a sweetening of dreams. At last the body would not be denied, however, and sleep came.

  Morning came also. Alinor was aware, after a time, of restless movement in the antechamber. She turned and tried to burrow her head into Ian’s shoulder to shut out the demand on her conscience. The device did not succeed. Her nuzzling rubbed on a sore spot on Ian’s shoulder and woke him instead.

  “Yes?” he called. “What is it?”

  “Ian, this is Salisbury. I am sorry to break your rest, but I must speak to you.”

  “Geoffrey!” Ian cried, leaping out of bed and running into the next room.

  Alinor was not two steps behind him, holding a hastily snatched up blanket around her. “What ails him?” she asked. “Can he not be wakened? Is he blind? Dizzy?”

  “Geoffrey is very well,” Salisbury assured them, looking from one worried face to the other. “God has been good to me, to place him in such loving hands.”

  From time to time in the past, Salisbury had tried to circumvent his brother’s spite against one man or another. When he could not succeed, he had shrugged and put the matter out of his mind. John was more dear to him than other men. If he did not know his brother’s true character, he at least knew enough of it to understand that he must accept what he could not change—or abandon his brother completely. Now, for the first time since they were small children, Salisbury considered applying active pressure to John. He owed Ian a debt; he loved the man for himself; moreover, having seen Geoffrey again after a parting of some months, he was determined that his son would grow to manhood under Ian’s tutelage and no other. Geoffrey was becoming what a man dreams a son will be—and seldom are such dreams realized.

  The letter Salisbury had read had made one thing clear. John intended Ian should die—and he did not really care if Geoffrey died with him. The far uglier purpose underlying the words in the letter, Salisbury did not see. That was partly because he could not yet permit himself to believe John’s real intentions. In addition, the kind of jealousy that motivated them was so foreign to Salisbury’s nature that he could not conceive of any motive John could have for harming his son. There remained to him only two paths—remove Geoffrey from Ian’s care and abandon Ian to his fate or protect Ian from John.

  “I did not come to speak of Geoffrey but—but about—about the king.”

  Alinor opened her mouth, clamped it shut again with determination. Salisbury had come in person to save Ian, and, if he had not brought her men, the battle might easily have gone the other way. She had not expected even so much from him, but he was still John’s brother. It was wiser to keep a still tongue in her head. She went back into the bedchamber and brought out Ian’s bedrobe and a pair of slippers. Then she stepped out and found a servant whom she sent to look for her baggage.

  In broken pieces she heard them discussing the letter that Salisbury had brought for Ian’s perusal. When she had set in motion what needed to be done, she held out a hand for the letter. Ian passed it over without really thinking what he was doing. It was fortunate that the men were deeply involved in thrashing out the political consequences of Llewelyn’s capture of Gwenwynwyn and did not look at her.

  To Alinor the intentions were sickeningly apparent. John had obviously hoped Gwenwynwyn would be stupid enough to execute all three—Ian and the two boys—and depend upon John’s favor to make him supreme in Wales. To her, having so recently emerged from a bout with destructive jealousy, the double motive was clear enough. It did not occur to Alinor to abandon Geoffrey, because that could not save Ian. In any case she would not have entertained the idea. Geoffrey was a part of Ian, and Ian was hers! Her attention was drawn by the rising tone of Salisbury’s voice.

  “I will do it in any case, Ian. You can make it harder for me or easier for me—that is all.”


  “But William, I cannot abandon my life. The siege at Kemp must be brought to some conclusion—”

  “I think you will find that matter finished,” Salisbury interrupted bitterly. “I think the keep is in your men’s hands by now. Where do you think the four hundred mercenaries that were promised to Gwenwynwyn came from?”

  A little silence fell. Ian had been reasonably sure that it was the king’s men who held Kemp against him. He had guessed that the castellan had refused to resist unless the mercenaries were sent inside the castle. The first castellan had depended upon the king’s promise to send men to attack Ian’s force from behind. Why John had failed, Ian was not sure. The men may have been engaged elsewhere; the king might have been in one of his slothful periods when it was simply too much trouble to write a letter. The reason was not important. The second castellan had learned a lesson from the taking of the first keep and had yielded. He had been put out, of course, but had suffered no other harm. Obviously, the third wanted better assurance from John than a promise. Ian hoped the mercenaries had told the castellan they were leaving and had given him a chance to yield. He hoped they had not merely turned on the garrison of the keep and slaughtered them.

  “I did not think you in any real danger,” Salisbury said softly, looking aside. “I would have sent you word if I thought—”

  “You were quite right, William,” Ian said quickly.

  “What is it you wish us to do, Lord Salisbury?” Alinor asked.

  “I would like Ian to go where the king’s power does not run or is not strong. Not for long, Lady Alinor. I have some influence with my brother, but I need time. I am sorry to say it, but John will be—“ His voice checked abruptly; he took a breath and began again. “He will not be pleased by Ian’s escape or Llewelyn’s easy victory over Gwenwynwyn. I believe, and Ian agrees with me, that John hoped for a war in Wales that would weaken both Llewelyn and Gwenwynwyn so that—”

  “Yes, I see that, and I see that he would blame Ian for the failure of that plan also.”

  “Alinor,” Ian warned sharply.

  She shook her head at him. “I do not blame the king for that. It is reasonable enough to wish to see those you think may become a danger to you weakened, and it is only a human thing to set the fault where already you do not love. He cannot blame you, my lord,” she said to Salisbury, “because he loves you. Llewelyn is his daughter’s husband, and is necessary to him, although he would prefer Llewelyn to have less power and to be more obedient.”

  She stopped speaking abruptly as a servant came in with the basket that had her clothing, and gestured for it to be carried into the bedchamber. Salisbury looked at her with gratitude. He had not expected her to take so tolerant a view, but she did not smile. She met his eyes purposefully and then, as purposefully, glanced toward the doorway. Thus, the earl was not particularly surprised when, instead of continuing the discussion, Alinor suggested that she and Ian dress so that they could all go to Mass and then break their fast. Salisbury did not hesitate but went at once. Alinor’s glance had not been lost. He believed she wished to be alone with her husband to convince him to seek safety.

  Ian made no protest at the abrupt termination of the conversation either. He had far less reason than Salisbury to expect such sweet reasonableness from his wife on the subject of King John. Thus, Alinor’s desire for privacy was quite apparent to him also. He followed her quickly into the bedchamber, noting she still had John’s letter clutched in her hand.

  “We will go to Ireland,” Alinor said abruptly. “It has long been planned for you to go there, that is well known.”

  “So that my face may be saved and all men will not know that, cowardlike, I flee an unjust anger,” Ian rejoined hotly. “I will know. Why should I flee? I have done no wrong.”

  “I was not thinking of you, Ian. You have rated me harshly enough for trying to protect you that I would not urge safety on you now,” Alinor said most untruthfully. “You have said also that you are a man grown, and it is true, and when there is danger you will know how to protect yourself. But Geoffrey is not a man grown. It is him I fear for. Ian, look again at this letter. Look at the meaning under the words. Think what that —that venomous worm was hoping, nay, urging Lord Gwenwynwyn to do. Think of the terms Gwenwynwyn offered Sir Peter—yes, I have spoken to him already, and he has confessed the whole. Never mind that now, except that I do not think Sir Peter was lying to save himself.”

  Ian did not need to reread the letter, nor had he forgotten the terms Sir Peter described. Gwenwynwyn had understood the king. Of course, he was no fool. His purposes would be better served by keeping Owain and Geoffrey alive, and he had tried to arrange that, but John’s intention was nonetheless clear. Ian followed the track of Alinor’s mind easily enough also—except for not seeing that she was using Geoffrey as a lever to move him. Even if he had seen it, that would have made no difference. Wherever they were in England, John’s hate would follow Ian and Geoffrey would die with him.

  “But why?” he breathed sickly. Alinor understood the question.

  “Because Salisbury loves the boy, and the love grows. And John is such a man that he cannot bear for Salisbury to love another.” Color rose in her face. “As you know, my lord, I, too, have a jealous nature.”

  Ian dismissed that. Alinor might be jealous, but she was not foul. It was herself she had torn apart. She had not meant to hurt him, nor had she sought to find out who “the woman” was so that she could hurt her.

  “Can it really benefit Geoffrey, to run with him?” Ian mused, as much to himself as to Alinor.

  “Yes,” she replied. “In two ways. The first you know—Geoffrey would be out of reach. The second is that Salisbury will not say his name with praise every other moment.”

  “Nonsense,” Ian exclaimed, almost laughing. “That is a woman’s way with infants. Salisbury has other interests and other children.”

  “They are too young. Mark my words, he will return to the king, meaning to speak well of you and will rave of Geoffrey’s perfections—how strong in arms he has grown, how tall, as if you had pulled him up by the hair—”

  “If he does so, John will have both of us executed only to save himself from death by boredom—and I will not blame him.”

  Although he was laughing, Ian was also thinking over past idle-hour conversations with Salisbury, which certainly did seem to center on Geoffrey. Of course, the topic was of absorbing interest to Ian also, and much of it was frankly practical—how much Salisbury was willing to pay for clothing, arms, horses, and the like. Yet there, too, was a hint Alinor was right. Salisbury was willing to give far more than Geoffrey needed and far more than Ian thought it healthy for a boy to have.

  Ofttimes extra gifts came from the father—a second, exquisite lute, even though Geoffrey had professed himself delighted with the one Alinor had given him on Twelfth Night, a fine horse, a purse of gold “to buy such little comforts as others might not think of”. Ian had removed that from Geoffrey’s hands and written Salisbury a sharp note of reprimand for sending gold to a boy just on the ripening side of manhood when he was on a battlefield where he could spend it on nothing but whores—and unclean ones at that.

  Ian remembered begging Salisbury to be more reasonable and not destroy Geoffrey’s sense of values, and he remembered the answer he had had. Geoffrey would not need to worry about such things. His grandfather’s estates had already been secured to him through a special charter from the king—not only the daughter’s portion, but the whole—and much of Salisbury’s own property, since Ela’s enormous estates would be more than sufficient for his legitimate children. Another reason in that why John might wish to be rid of Geoffrey. Because Geoffrey was illegitimate, Salisbury was not his son’s heir. The property would revert to the crown if Geoffrey died.

  “All jesting aside,” Ian said after his thoughts had run their course, “I begin to agree with you. But distance will not mend matters if Salisbury does not mend his ways.”

 
“You may leave that to me,” Alinor suggested. “And do not fear. I will say nothing of the king.” She paused, studying Ian’s face. “My lord, my love, what troubles you?” she asked after a moment.

  “A curse on this life and on him who makes it impossible for me to taste a moment’s joy without tears to follow,” Ian said bitterly. “I have found you only to lose you again.”

  “How lose me?” Alinor asked fearfully.

  “Perhaps lose is too strong a word,” Ian corrected himself, “but I am tired of sweet letters instead of a sweet woman abed.”

  “But I am going with you!” she exclaimed. “And do not begin to argue with me about taking a woman to a land all at war. Isobel will be going to William. I can stay with her. We can all even go together. If you do not take me, Ian, I will follow you—and that will be more dangerous to me. In this, I will not obey you.”

  “I thought you feared Ireland.”

  “I do, but not for myself. I told you that before. I swear I am not a witch, Ian. I do not have foreseeings, but when I think of you alone going to Ireland, such a black terror comes over me as I cannot describe. Yet when I think we will go together—that is different.”

  “Is it, Alinor?” He studied her face, which was lifted to him, and the eyes were clear, the complexion healthy. “And Adam and Joanna?” he asked.

  Then she paled. “Not the children! You and I—that will come to a good end. There will be trouble, but not such as courage and caution cannot mend.”

  “But Alinor, we cannot leave Adam and Joanna unprotected. Ireland is not far, but it is not a day’s ride, either.”

  “While you and I are together, alive, out of reach, and young enough to breed, the children are safe. There is no profit in harming them when more seeds may be planted and come to fruition. Adam, moreover, can go to Robert of Leicester, who is well able to protect him. Robert has written to ask for him, his oldest squire being knighted and having left. Adam is a little young—eight, but Robert is the right man to understand Adam’s wild humors and still teach him to control them—and Adam is very willing to go. At first he did not wish to go. He thought you would be more at home, and he wished to be with you.”