Geoffrey sobbed again, and Owain grimaced and shook his head.
“You had better save your tears. There will be reason enough to weep in the days coming. A man in love is a devil to serve,” Owain remarked from the lofty eminence of his two-year-greater experience of the world.
Chapter Eight
Suffering is, curiously, both immediate and relative. Alinor’s maids, who had long bewailed their mistress’s dull quiescence because it laid a weight upon their spirits, now had cause to look back to that period with longing. After she emerged from her long conference with Father Francis, the maids found their mistress had become far too lively. Nothing, however it was done, was done aright. Sharp slaps and venomous remarks drove the women from one task to another for three interminable days.
In the field, the men serving Ian were having a very similar experience. At first they thought their lord’s bad temper was owing to their inability to lay the outlaws by the heels. There had been two minor clashes, but the reavers withdrew hastily as soon as they realized the farms they had attacked were defended by trained men-at-arms rather than serfs with cudgels. Ian’s men had not pursued them farther than the borders of Alinor’s land, according to their instructions. The men were well content with the results of their efforts. Not a single chicken or bag of flour or any other item had been lost to the outlaws.
They were puzzled by the lord’s dissatisfaction, but a few finally thought far enough ahead to point out to the others that the lord desired to destroy the band. If he did not, they would have to sit here on the border forever. Even if the reavers raided elsewhere for a time, they would return as soon as they discovered Roselynde lands were unguarded again. Having got that far, it seemed reasonable that Lord Ian should be impatient until his Welshmen returned with news of the outlaws’ camp.
On the second evening after Ian’s return, the Welshmen slipped back into the outpost, to be greeted by caustic questions as to whether they had lost their way. Well accustomed to hasty and intemperate masters, their spokesman replied mildly that it was a large forest and they had assumed the lord would desire to know where the back trails and secondary lairs were, as well as which foresters knew of the outlaws’ presence. That the reasonable refutation did nothing to calm their master’s ill temper did not surprise the Welshmen; that he did not even seem pleased at their detailed report, which should make it possible for him to take the reavers by surprise any time he wanted, left them shaking their heads in bewilderment.
By midmorning of the third day, the men were slinking unobtrusively out of Ian’s path whenever it was possible. Since Owain and Geoffrey had held their tongues, as befitted their station, which forbade gossip with commoners, Ian’s continued black mood was inexplicable and, therefore, frightening to them. Owain was neither frightened nor puzzled, but the too-sensitive pride of early manhood made him burn with resentment when an undeserved blow or bitter jibe was aimed at him. He, too, avoided his master. Geoffrey alone, who had originally been the most fearful, was quite content to linger in Ian’s company.
This was not because Ian was any more gentle with him than with the others. Twice Geoffrey, who was less quick at dodging than Owain, had been knocked right across the hut, and as many “clumsy louts”, “dull asses”, and “crawling worms” were launched at him as at anyone else. Geoffrey, however, did not mind a bit. Initially it was owing to his feeling of kinship with Ian’s pain. It was true that the beautiful Lady Alinor was not cruel to Geoffrey himself; instead she was cruel to his lord. As the days wore on, however, Geoffrey’s indifference to Ian’s mood was because what his lord did troubled Geoffrey not at all. He had never minded a bruise or two, and he recognized that the insults came from Ian’s spleen rather than from any lack in himself. Moreover, never did those insults touch or even approach any subject upon which Geoffrey was sensitive.
A terrified and uncertain adoration of the being who had rescued him from hell, who was always kind and just, was changing into a deep and abiding love in Geoffrey. It had been impossible to be secure in his adoration when he never saw his lord really out of temper. The flashes of anger that Owain had described as Ian’s lack of good humor had seemed too superficial to give proof of his lord’s true character. Besides, in France his father had been near, and Geoffrey feared that Ian’s behavior to him was softened to give Salisbury a good impression. Now that he saw Ian at his worst, Geoffrey knew he could trust him. Thus, when a messenger came from Roselynde Keep, it was Geoffrey who led him to Ian.
He found his lord seated on a stool and leaning back against the hut’s wall, with his eyes closed. For a moment Geoffrey hesitated. He knew Ian did not sleep well and was reluctant to wake him.
“Yes, what is it?” Ian snarled without opening his eyes.
“A messenger from Roselynde, lord.”
Ian’s eyes snapped open. Geoffrey watched with sympathy as the swarthy complexion grayed. “Well?” Ian snapped.
The man opened the saddlebag he had been carrying over his shoulder and removed a large packet of rolled documents. Color flooded back into Ian’s face as he hurriedly unrolled one, then a second. The marriage contracts. A quick check showed that all five copies were the same. Five! Alinor was taking no chances. One for her, one for him, one for the local church, one for the bishop’s archives and one for the king. Ian looked at the four closely written sheets, and a faint smile—the first in three days—twitched his lips. It had taken some time to compose and no little time to make five copies. She must have started on this very soon after he had raged out of Roselynde.
“What said your mistress?” Ian asked.
“To ride in haste, lord, which I did, and then to do further as you bid me.”
“That was all?”
“Yes, lord.”
“There was no other matter? No letter?”
“What you have was what was given to me, my lord.”
It was a stupid question, Ian knew. Naturally the messenger would have given him everything. Alinor was still angry, then. Ian glanced down at the contracts, reluctant to start reading. If she wanted to be rid of him, she could have written in clauses that he could not accept. His refusal to sign could be taken as a formal withdrawal of his offer of marriage.
“Take what rest you can,” he said to the messenger. “You will need to ride again later.”
Hellcat, Ian thought, realizing she had him in a cleft stick. The flash of rage, the determination to beat her at her own game and have her still, gave Ian the impetus to begin reading. He flashed through the document, sure that the temptation to withdraw his offer would be displayed prominently. There was nothing of the kind. A feeling that he had perhaps been unjust, balanced by a fear that Alinor was willing to marry him but intended somehow to tie his hands, set him to reading again, one word at a time, very carefully.
The second reading completed, Ian tilted his stool back against the wall again and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Hellcat, he thought again, but this time with fond admiration. Too proud to beg pardon, that was why she had not written or sent a message. The contract was all the apology he would ever get. And I am more than content, he decided. After all, if Alinor said she was sorry for her outburst, he would have had to say he was sorry for the provocation he had given her. That, he feared, might lead to more concessions on his part than on hers.
Ian knew he should feel ashamed of himself for misjudging Alinor. With his fears laid to rest, he recognized that she was not the type to use a mean subterfuge. She would stand up to him, knife in hand if need be, and fight him face to face for anything she wanted. However, he was too well satisfied with the outcome to feel ashamed of anything. He looked around at Geoffrey, who had not been dismissed, and stood patiently waiting for orders. Ian grinned at him.
“Never try to outguess a woman,” Ian said. “She will do you in, every time. And what is worse,” he added with a laugh, “you will be glad of it.”
“Lord?” Geoffrey asked doubtfully.
Ian laug
hed again. “You have some years before you need worry about it. Go now and fetch me a quill and some ink—the bailiff must have some—and find out if there is a man here who knows the way to Winchester and the country thereabout, and—oh, yes—a sheet of parchment, and then send the messenger back to me.”
Rationally Alinor knew that Ian would sign the contract. It was a fair document, following the suggestions he himself had made. There was no reason for him not to sign. Her heart, however, was not as easy as her mind. Every time she started to make preparations for the wedding, whether it was to consider the clothing that would have to be sewn or to arrange for the supplies that would be needed for the entertainment of her guests, she was shaken by nervous qualms. As a friend, she knew and trusted Ian; in a deep, personal relationship, she discovered she had no idea how he would act.
Because Simon had loved her, more than loved her, doted upon her, Alinor knew she could always get her own way with him. There was no similar assurance about her relationship with Ian. Certainly she had displayed her very worst characteristics to him and at the very worst time. It was not impossible that he would seek some kind of guarantee that she would be a more docile wife than the termagant she seemed. It was also possible that he would wish to punish her by letting her dangle. If she went ahead with inviting the guests and preparing for the feasting, he could add punitive clauses to the contract and expect she would agree to save herself the shame of a canceled wedding.
Alinor had sent her messenger off to Ian just after the prime. She watched the sun flicker in and out of the clouds, rising toward its midday high and then beginning to drop lower in the sky. She knew how long it would take to ride to the farm where Ian had settled. She knew how long it would take for a man to sign five documents. She knew how long it would take for the messenger to ride back. That time came and passed. Alinor closed herself in her bedchamber to think what next to do and to save herself from murdering someone in her impotent rage.
She felt a fool, of course, when the messenger did arrive, and she realized her careful calculations had not allowed time either for Ian to read the contract or for him to write the letter the messenger was proffering to her. Nor, she thought wryly, as she opened the letter, had she considered that he might not be at the farm. Ian’s purpose, after all, had been to hunt outlaws, not to wait for the contract to be delivered to him. Her reaction to her own silliness was so strong that she did not even suffer from doubts of Ian’s intentions when she realized the messenger carried nothing but the letter. It read:
“To Alinor, Lady of Roselynde, greetings. I have been well pleased with what you sent to me. Having added my name and my seal to yours, I have sent all to Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, that he might sign as witness. From thence my man will go on to Salisbury, both to bid William to the wedding and to have his name as witness to the contract also. I have written to him, of course, to say that he need not sign if he doubts the king’s reaction. It will thus be some days before you will have your copy back again, but I desired to have all made safe before the king’s messenger should come, if one should come. On another matter, I have knowledge now of where the camp of the reavers lies. I will wait some little time before attempting it, however, in the hope that hunger will make them desperate and they will come to me. Do not, therefore, expect to see me soon unless, of course, you have need of me. If so, send, and I will come. Written this ides of October by Ian, Lord de Vipont.”
Having reread the letter twice, Alinor drew breath sharply through her teeth. Did Lord de Vipont think he was dealing with a child having a tantrum? Glancingly, her mind gave credit to the fact that Ian was not mean or petty. He had signed the contract and taken every precaution to ensure its validity. In addition, he had taken no nasty little revenge, such as leaving her in doubt of what he had done or what he intended. On the other hand, he seemed to feel that withdrawing the company of his exquisite person would bring her to heel. Did he really think she would beg pardon and plead with him to return? Did he think she could not manage to prepare for the wedding without him? Dear Ian had much to learn about his lady.
The date was settled for the first day of December, and Alinor knew the names of the men Ian wished to invite. There was nothing else she needed him for until it was necessary for him to take the vows in person and bed her. Alinor stared across the hall to the fire on the far side. A very faint smile lifted her lips and made her expression perfectly enchanting. She was remembering the avidity on Ian’s face when he looked down at her some days ago.
“Lord de Vipont indeed,” she whispered softly. “Mayhap you think you love another woman, but I know desire in the eyes of a man when I see it.” A brow quirked upward, and the smile became more mischievous. “Desire is a fine rope with which to bind a man and lead him into new pastures.”
Alinor’s eyes began to sparkle as her spirit lifted and danced. She sprang to her feet with a lightness she had not felt for over a year. This was a problem she was not afraid to face. She had been a fool not to think of this solution right from the beginning. For Ian it would be far better to love his wife than to eat up his soul with hopeless longing. Alinor knew she had been a good wife to Simon; they had been happy together. Once she had enslaved Ian, she would be a good wife to him also, and he would be happy, too. It was unfortunate, Alinor thought, as she tripped lightly up the stairs, that Ian had never spoken to her about the woman he loved. It would have made her task much easier if she knew her rival.
Thinking back over the years, Alinor realized that Ian had never spoken to her about women at all, except in such a general way as to mention who was at court. There had been hints of Ian’s conquests, but those had all come from Simon, who would laugh or raise a brow in a significant way when a certain name was mentioned. But it was never the same name two visits in succession. Alinor would swear none of those women was more than a vent to let out the heat of a young man’s blood. It was also to Ian’s credit that he was no proud seducer. He had seemed more embarrassed than pleased at Simon’s knowing looks.
Well, if she did not know, she did not, Alinor thought, dismissing the problem for more practical ones. Although she had spent considerable time with Joanna choosing cloth and adornment for the child’s dresses, she had scarcely given a thought to her own. Now she summoned her maids and began a turning out of chests in good earnest. For Simon she had always kept the dress characteristic of a young maiden, because that was what he liked. For Ian, she needed a new persona. No more leaf-green and white and gold. Green and gold, yes, those colors suited her, but in richer tints, more brilliant dyes. And now there were a range of other colors.
Alinor fingered a length of rich, tawny, orange velvet and a cloth-of-gold veil, thin as a whisper and glittering with gold thread. The veil had lain there since she returned from the Holy Land so many years ago. She lifted it to her cheek and went to look—really look—at herself in the polished silver sheet used to reflect images. Even with the darkening and graying effect of the imperfect mirror, the image was flattering. Now for the tunic. More chests were dragged out and opened. Somewhere, once, there had been—ah!—a piece of heavy, heavy, dark-gold silk brocaded in gold until the fabric was stiff. She unfolded the cloth and sighed. It was large enough. Alinor laid the orange on the gold, heard one of her maids gasp.
“For an undertunic, madam?” another protested breathlessly.
“Yes,” Alinor said slowly, “yes, indeed. I do not need to blazon my wealth abroad. I can well afford outward modesty.”
That was one. There must be at least three more. Her eyes fell upon another velvet, a red so dark it was near to brown, and with that a brilliant crimson wool as soft as a kitten. That would need embroidery to embellish it. Alinor could see the pattern in her mind’s eye, not too fine in the detail, so that the maids could do the work. Open leaves winding up the arm and around the throat and matching bands seeming to start from the waist of the cotte and branching out over the skirt. A headdress? The gold would have to do; there was
no other color that would suit.
Other choices were swiftly made. The trestle upon which Alinor cut cloth was set up, and she began to work on the fabrics chosen. One gown and one tunic were readied for sewing before the light began to fail. Alinor was a little irritated, but in too good a humor to let such a trifle change her mood. The women could sew by candlelight, and she would cut the others the next day. Meantime, she trotted down to the great hall again and sought out Father Francis. Together they devised the different wordings needed for the invitations to friends, to great nobles, and to vassals and castellans, who were summoned rather than invited. Originally, Alinor had planned to write the messages herself with Father Francis’ assistance, but now she expected to be too busy. She instructed the priest to take the list of names and the forms to a small abbey some ten miles to the east and beg the abbot to allow the lay brothers, who served as scribes, to do the copying. Naturally Alinor would make a suitable offering to the abbey church as a thanksgiving for the help. Alinor spent the evening hours writing to William and Isobel. They were friends of the heart and deserved more than an unexplained invitation to a wedding. Not that there was much need for explanation. Even if William did not know of Alinor’s contretemps with the king—and it was likely that he did, because Simon usually confided everything to William—he and Isobel would be well aware of the hard facts of life.
Well content with her day, Alinor allowed her maids to undress her and brush her shining hair while her mind ranged over the activities she planned for the next day. She was only slightly tired, physically tired with excitement and work rather than heavy with the burden on her spirit, just tired enough to be aware of the pleasure of stretching in her luxurious bed. “Ian, Lord de Vipont,” she murmured and giggled softly. The bed had brought its inevitable association. “You will yet sign your letters to me in a far different fashion, or I am not the woman I think I am.”
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