Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  “Slower, master,” the huntsman hissed. “The wood is near. Those we seek must have traveled far in the time I came afoot. They might hear us, or we might pass those who watch.”

  Near. The word caught Ian’s attention and permitted him to listen and understand. He pulled in his horse. The beast resisted, sensing his quickened breath, his quivering eagerness. Again the stallion reared, bucked, lashed out. It was a blessing. While he fought his mount, the wriggling madness retreated a little. Reined in, the party approached the woods at a walk. Suddenly, a nightjar whistled almost in Ian’s ear. Some distance south, a figure detached itself from the edge of the shadow and began a steady loping run toward the oncoming horsemen. The nightjar whistled again.

  “Stop,” the huntsman urged.

  Ian ground his teeth and tried to pray.

  “They have not passed this way,” a coarse voice muttered when the running shadow reached them. “Either they are farther in the wood or they have stopped. Go south of the moon for a little. Horn is in the wood.”

  Stopped. If they had stopped—Ian took a grip on that thought, strangled it, and buried it. He turned his head to give further instructions to Jamie the Scot about what was to be done when they came upon the group they hunted. Alinor’s men pressed close behind him.

  “Quiet!” Ian snapped. Their angry muttering set his own rage boiling under the tight lid he had on it.

  They moved forward again, slowly now, because the trees blocked the moon except for intermittent brighter patches, and there was the constant danger of being swept from the saddle by low-hanging branches. The coarse-voiced huntsman also rode pillion, from time to time emitting the nightjar whistle. The shrill sound was doing Ian no good. Each time, something inside him shivered. At last, the birdcall woke a response other than birds; the whistle was followed almost at once by a weasel’s shriek. Ian jumped, but the huntsman uttered a grunt of satisfaction and bade them stop again. Horn came slipping through the trees, nodding recognition as the nightjar whistled still again. He did not speak but, as soon as he was sure they had good sight of him, beckoned them to follow and ran south.

  Ian moved his shield to his arm and unhooked the morningstar from his saddle. Owain stared at his master. He had never seen him use that weapon before and had had lectures, when he was being taught to use it himself, about the impropriety of using it except in emergencies. He could only presume they would be badly outnumbered. He thought about it as he slid his own shield from shoulder to arm. Then he heard Ian’s voice, low and sing-song.

  “Did you speak, lord?”

  There was no reply. The morningstar swung suggestively on its barbed chain, but the continuing spate of words were too low to hear. Owain licked his lips nervously and settled his helmet firmly over his mail hood. Something bad was going to happen.

  There was not much longer to wait, which was just as well, for Ian’s mental balance was teetering nearer and nearer the edge of dissolution. Horn stopped and pointed ahead. Faintly there was the sound of voices; the tone indicated that men were shouting, although distance softened and made the words indistinguishable. The two huntsmen slipped from the cruppers of the horses and moved west. Ian signaled, and some of the troop, Jamie leading, followed them.

  “Wait,” Ian whispered to himself. “Wait. Do not spoil all. Wait.”

  One last time the nightjar whistled.

  “Forward!” Ian snarled softly, but the men heard.

  The shouting increased in volume as they moved, increased until there was one louder shriek of alarm. Then all sound cut off.

  “Forward!” Ian bellowed, setting spurs to his horse.

  It seemed as if a single stride took the stallion the last few yards. He burst into a small clearing where three men stood centered within a larger group, all motion arrested by surprise. Another leap took the horse into the group. One man flew from the destrier’s shoulder, another shrieked as he fell beneath the iron-shod hooves. There was a sweet, wet squelch as a third was brained by the morningstar. That man did not cry out at all, but another screamed as the return stroke tore half his face away, and screamed as he fell, and went on screaming. The tableau shattered. The clearing was full of frantic motion—men-at-arms on horses swinging weapons and men running, dodging, crawling, shrieking with pain and fear.

  “Kill them!” Ian screamed. “Kill them! Kill them!” He swung the morningstar and missed as the destrier’s momentum carried him past a bloodied, white-faced thing that held up unarmed hands in supplication. Cursing, Ian loosened his shield and cast it from his arm, flung himself from his horse, swung the morningstar again, and again, and again. In a single glimpse he had seen a heap of bodies at one edge of the clearing and, a little to one side, a smaller heap that, even with the colors bleached by the moonlight, was wearing the dress of a gentlewoman.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ian! Ian! Stop! Ian, stop!”

  No man’s voice could reach that pitch. No one there would call him by his name. How long had it taken him to hear her? Ian opened the hand that held the shaft of the morningstar, allowed the loop of the weapon to slide off his wrist. He lifted his eyes from what lay at his feet. There should have been a wild rush of relief when he saw Alinor, safe and well. He did feel gladness, but it was strangely muted, as if the emotion was blanketed under a heavy weight or was a thing perceived at an immense distance.

  Alinor was spattered and streaked with blood, but the sight did not shock him. Although it was true that he was, at that moment, incapable of feeling shock, Ian knew the blood was not hers. Obviously, it had come from the dead things in the clearing and had sprayed from the weapon he had been wielding. Slowly and carefully, Alinor raised her hands and took his face between them. Ian stared at her with recognition but without feeling. There was a surprising absence of human voices. Horses stamped and nickered nervously, and there was a soft sound of sobbing. Ian looked more closely at Alinor, but the sound did not come from her.

  “Ian?” she questioned gently.

  It was very peculiar. Ian felt cold and tired and as if everyone was a stranger to him. Most peculiar. He turned his head a little to one side and then to the other. His men-at-arms were backed away as widely as the clearing would permit. On the ground were the remains of what had been men—probably, it was hard to tell now. Ian brought his eyes back to Alinor.

  “I lost my temper,” he said inadequately, then, distantly, remembered why. “I thought… Are you all right? Did they—”

  “I am quite unharmed. Unhurt. No one touched me except to bind my hands and lift me from one horse to another.”

  Alinor’s words were slow and distinct, her voice exaggeratedly soothing, but Ian’s eyes were quite sane now, merely shadowed with a faint anxiety. Alinor let her hands slide from his face to his shoulders. He sighed, remembering terror, but as a faint, faraway thing.

  “The way you were lying—I thought you were dead.”

  “No. The fools did not even take my eating knife from me, and they tied my wrists in front. I curled up so that they would not see me freeing my hands while they stood and argued.”

  “I see. Well, thank God we were in time.” He glanced around again. The killing done seemed unnecessarily brutal, but what was wrong with everyone? “Do you remember how many men there were, Alinor?”

  “Fourteen,” she replied promptly, still watching him.

  He could not understand her expression. That was most peculiar also, but he was too tired to ask. “Good,” he replied. “You keep your head.”

  “Why not? I was not even much frightened.” If she had been shaken to a jelly, Alinor would not have admitted it. The last thing she wanted was to set Ian off again. She allowed one hand to drop away from him, but she touched his cheek with the other. “You should not allow yourself to be so overset,” she suggested gently. “If they had been clever, they would never have laid hands upon me. Since they were so stupid as to try to take me, you should have known I would manage somehow to keep them at bay until you co
uld come for me.”

  Ian sighed again. He wondered why Alinor said he had been overset. It was surprising how tired he felt. His arm ached as if he had been fighting all day. Yet it could not have taken long to subdue fourteen ill-armed and ill-trained men. He turned from Alinor and counted. Eleven. Three were missing. That was what was wrong. His eyes swept the circle of men-at-arms.

  “You allowed three to escape,” he said harshly.

  “Nae, thegn,” Jamie replied. He gestured quickly, and three trembling creatures were dragged forward.

  “Kill them,” Ian said coldly.

  “Ian,” Alinor protested, laying a hand on his arm. “They did me no harm.”

  He looked down at her. “They dared to threaten violence to a gentlewoman. If they had only dared think of it, they would deserve to die.” He nodded sharply to his man-at-arms, and repeated, “Kill them.” To Alinor he said, “I am in a hurry, or I would have had them drawn and quartered in the town in public as an example.”

  The berserker was completely gone, Alinor realized, watching him. There was no hatred, no emotion at all, in his order to kill. It was a rational, considered act. As Alinor thought it over, she realized she would have been capable of giving the same order had she not been momentarily sickened by what she had already seen. There was also the fact that she could hardly believe what had happened. Alinor could hardly believe that any group of commoners would abduct a gentlewoman. Such a thing had never happened on her lands before, and she had never considered what would be a suitable penalty. Now that she did think of it, her brisk nod mirrored Ian’s.

  “You are right, my lord.”

  Suddenly the people in the clearing jerked into normalcy. A babble of voices broke out as the brief execution was arranged. Owain came forward carrying Ian’s discarded shield. He proffered it to his master, who looked at it a moment in amazement before he slid it automatically over his shoulder. Alinor “tchk’d” with irritation but said nothing. Perhaps the bandaging would be sufficient to keep Ian’s back from being rubbed raw again. Owain bent and picked up the morningstar, which was bloodied and clotted with pieces of flesh right up to the handgrip.

  “Where is Geoffrey?” Ian asked sharply.

  Owain jerked his head toward the far edge of the clearing. “Sick,” he said briefly, and then swallowed convulsively himself.

  Ian shrugged. “Tell him to swallow his gorge and come here.” His eyes fell on the morningstar, which swung from Owain’s hand. A faint frown passed over his face. “See if you can clean that a little. It will drive my horse mad.”

  For some reason Ian could not understand, Owain swallowed hard again. “Yes, lord,” he remarked feelingly.

  “Where is the horse?” Ian asked next with some concern, aware suddenly that everyone was afoot.

  “There are four men battling with him back in the woods,” Alinor said. “Most of that,” she waved toward the mutilated corpses, “is your work, but some of it is the beast’s. Any creature that rose up and tried to flee and ran by mistake in his direction he kicked and tore to pulp. Is he safe to ride, Ian?”

  “Of course,” he replied, rather surprised. “That is his training. He did not touch me. He knows my smell now. He will be quiet as soon as I am in the saddle.”

  “Then perhaps you should mount him,” Alinor suggested, “before we are four men-at-arms the less.”

  “Let Geoffrey go tell the men to bring the horse,” Ian agreed, almost smiling.

  Alinor shook her head and took hold of Ian’s arm. Seeing the message in her eyes, he gestured to Owain to wait and bent his head so that she could speak softly. “You had better speak to the child, Ian. He is not only sick, he is sickened. He saw what he is really too young to see, and the horse will make everything worse.”

  “It is his first battle, Alinor. That he should be sick is a usual thing. Every boy needs to be blooded. He must grow accustomed.”

  “God forbid!” Alinor exclaimed.

  “God forbid!” Ian echoed in amazement. “Geoffrey must learn that battles make dead men. Thirteen is not too young to see death.”

  “It is too young to see his master fighting berserk.”

  “Berserk? I?” Ian’s eyes wandered to the flesh-and-blood-caked morningstar, then down his own body. He was completely covered with blood, his hands and arms dyed with it well above the elbows, his surcoat stiffening almost as hard as untanned leather as the blood dried. “Good Lord,” he said mildly, “no wonder you said I should not permit myself to be so overset.” He turned from Alinor to his squire. “Owain, did I act in any way unusual?”

  “Lord, I have never seen the like. Of the eleven men, you struck down eight. And the horse followed you, trampling any who rose.”

  “Not then,” Ian said impatiently, “before the battle. Did I fail in giving any order to the men that was needful?”

  “Oh no, my lord.”

  Ian nodded with satisfaction. “I thought I remembered dealing with the men as usual. The rest is not important. Go send Geoffrey to me. Give order also that the bodies be tied to the worst of the beasts. They can be loaded into carts when we come to the nearest farmstead.”

  “Ian,” Alinor said softly when the squire was gone. “It is not unimportant. You threw your shield away. Those creatures were nothing, but in a real battle—”

  “I do not run berserk in an ordinary battle,” he replied dryly. “Why should I? I do not hate or fear my opponents in battle.” He put out a hand, looked at the blood on it and let it drop without touching Alinor. Suddenly feeling came back to him, and he needed to stiffen his body to keep from trembling like a leaf, to keep from clutching Alinor to him and weeping over her. “Do you not understand? It was because—”

  “Lord?”

  The trembling whisper checked the words on Ian’s lips. A flicker of anger was swallowed in relief. Alinor was herself again, warm, concerned for him, friendly. He had almost pushed her back into coldness by speaking of love. Fool that he was, would he never learn? He turned toward Geoffrey. The boy did not cringe away, but his eyes widened apprehensively. Ian smiled at him.

  “You know, Geoffrey, I was pleased when you decided to stay with the fighting group because I thought it was time for you to be blooded. I did not expect there would be… er… quite so much blood.”

  The strained look diminished appreciably as Ian’s calm voice and practical words began to penetrate. The vision of the berserker, bludgeoning already dead men into red jelly, faded. Geoffrey watched his master remove a gauntlet and grimace distastefully at the red-stained hand. There had been so much blood that it had soaked right through the leather glove.

  “You must not be distressed that you felt sick,” Ian continued. “I hate to tell you how often I have emptied my belly after a battle, and Owain still does so now and again. It is a common thing. No one will say aught to you or think less of you for it.”

  Alinor retreated gently. The boy did not need her and would speak more easily to Ian if they were alone. He was a most excellent master to his squires. It was too bad Adam could not stay with him. But that would not be suitable anyway, Alinor thought. Even if she were not going to marry Ian, he was not the right person to be Adam’s lord. He was too fond of Adam, too accustomed to thinking of Adam as a “baby” to deal with his young manhood. Either Ian would overprotect the “child of his heart” or, in trying to avoid that pitfall, would thrust him into too much danger. He could judge what to do for Geoffrey and Owain because they were not “children” to him. He had never held them in his arms or received their wet little baby kisses or steadied their first stumbling steps. Ian knew Geoffrey and Owain only as young males growing into manhood. She half turned away, as if her attention was elsewhere, but her ears were tuned to the pair she had just left.

  “I was frightened, lord,” Geoffrey said, very low.

  A fine boy, Alinor thought. The words came as if drawn by a winch, but he had confessed what he probably believed was the ultimate sin and shame.

 
“But you did not run away,” Ian comforted gravely. “As you grow more sure of your ableness with weapons, that feeling will grow less. Even if it does not, so long as you do your duty, it does not matter how you feel inside. For example, it is my duty to instruct my men and deploy them so that they accomplish their purpose at the same time as they suffer as few losses as possible. Usually this is easy for me out of long practice. Today I was so angry because that filth had dared—” His voice faltered. “What I mean to say, Geoffrey, is that I did not wish to bother to tell you where to ride or to tell Jamie to guard you or to tell the men to surround the clearing before they charged. I wished only to come to grips with those who had offended me. Yet had I not done my duty, had I charged and laid about me as I desired, most would have escaped.”

  The boy nodded stiffly, still not able to accept what he had seen. Ian smiled at him.

  “Usually, of course, this trouble does not arise. In a war called by the king or even to defend my own lands, there is no reason to be angry with those who fight against me. Or, at least,” Ian’s lips twitched, “not so angry as that.” He gestured toward the shambles in the clearing.

  There was interest in Geoffrey’s eyes now, and a tinge of color in his cheeks. Ian judged that whatever shock the boy had was sufficiently dissipated to allow time and the next battle, which was bound to be cleaner, to complete the process of adjustment to violent death. An unguarded crashing, to which Ian had been attending with half an ear while he soothed Geoffrey, resolved itself into the gray destrier being brought around through the woods behind the clearing because no one dared try to lead it across past the dead men. Ian looked at the horse and barely restrained a shudder.

  Blood dyed the destrier’s legs right to the hocks and splattered the belly and breast and even the face. Two men hung on the reins close to the bit and two others to the harness. Even with that weight restraining him, the horse persisted in trying to rear and snap. Weals on shoulder and neck showed where someone had taken a stick or the flat of a sword to the animal. Ian’s mouth opened to ask who had committed that outrage, and then closed. Doubtless there had been no other way to subdue him. In essence he had committed the outrage himself by abandoning the poor dumb creature to his own devices. Trained to respond to the smell of blood with rage instead of the normal reaction of terror, the horse had run as mad as he when the controlling hand was gone.