William of Salisbury was furious, but his anger was not directed against any person. How could it be? Plainly, Ian was as surprised and appalled as he himself was at what Alinor had done. Yet he could not blame poor Alinor, who was equally plainly frightened out of her wits by the choice of husbands offered her. Probably Ian should have warned her, Salisbury thought, not knowing that Alinor had read his letter, but he understood why Ian had not done so. Salisbury could not even blame John, poor John, who could never judge a man or a situation aright and who invariably and consistently did exactly the wrong thing. He would have to go to John as soon as he arrived in England, Salisbury thought, and explain what had happened. If he could convince John to accept this marriage graciously, little harm would be done. The king’s kindness in forgiving a subject would overshadow his lack of good taste in desiring to enrich his faithful servants.
Shortly after dinner, before he departed, Salisbury said as much to Ian and asked about the disposition of Adam and Joanna. To Ian’s relief, he did not seem at all put out by the inconclusive answers he received. He said he understood that Alinor would scarcely be able to give her mind to such matters in the midst of her own wedding. Ian had to be a little less discreet, but Salisbury still did not take offense. He said he was sorry not to have Adam, and then remarked with a laugh and in plain words on what Ian had phrased most delicately.
“Alinor is wrong about my wife. She will have to come to know Ela better, but I can see that attendance at court might not be what is best for a young boy of such high spirit, more particularly for Adam if my brother takes this marriage ill—which I hope he will not. And it is reasonable not to make double ties in one direction when there are only two children. I may hope, then, that Lady Alinor will agree eventually to the marriage of Geoffrey and Joanna? She has no objection to Geoffrey?”
“As to that, none at all,” Ian replied, and then, since Salisbury had been very frank, he added, “She said plainly that she would be glad of him even landless and without legitimization, if he could take Joanna’s fancy. Moreover, she added she would do whatever was in her power to turn Joanna’s eyes in Geoffrey’s direction.”
“Then I am content.”
Salisbury mounted the horse held ready for him and waved farewell as he clattered over the drawbridge, following his wife’s party. Ian stood looking after him for some time before he turned and hobbled back toward the keep. It was a relief to know that Salisbury was not offended and that he would do his best to smooth matters over with John. That had been implied, of course, in his letter. Nonetheless, it was good to have his renewed promise in the face of the animosity toward John that Alinor had deliberately raised.
Ian was never deluded into believing in the band of outlaws, but he credited Alinor with even greater skill in management and duplicity than she had. All day, busy speeding parting guests and entertaining those who remained, Ian vacillated between fury at the way Alinor had used her guests and relief that the cause of the king’s anger—if John decided to show his spite—would be well and widely known. That night, as soon as Alinor’s maids had gathered up his discarded clothing and left the chamber, he turned on his wife.
“What outlaws? How did you dare?”
Alinor made no reply, quietly braiding her hair into two plaits as thick as Ian’s wrists. Ordinarily she did not braid her hair at night, but it had got in her way when she mounted her husband the previous night. As Ian had been on his feet a good deal this day and his knee seemed, from the way he was standing, to be painful, she thought it just as well to be prepared to play the more active role in lovemaking again.
“Did you hear me?” Ian snarled.
“I am not deaf,” Alinor rejoined calmly.
“How dared you trap the bishops, Oxford, Llewelyn, your vassals and mine, even John’s own brother and daughter into an open disapproval of the king’s act?”
“Because it was an act worthy of disapproval.”
“That is not what I meant,” Ian bellowed. “You cannot befool me! There were no outlaws in the forest. I scoured it clean, and I know it was clean. It was your men who took the messenger. How dared you do such a thing?”
“I thought it better than adding open defiance of the king’s will to the spite he already has against me. The messenger came to no harm. No blame can fall upon him for what clearly was not his fault. No blame can fall on us for what was not our fault. Where have I done wrong?”
“You have lied with your eyes, with your mouth and your voice, with your body. You—”
“I will confess and do penance,” Alinor said indifferently.
Ian choked. “Father Francis must have the penance for that engraved deep in his heart,” he remarked bitterly.
Having finished with her hair, Alinor twisted in her chair to look at her husband. “Not really. I am not a liar by nature,” she teased.
Ian’s fists clenched, but he made an enormous effort of will. “Alinor,” he said softly, “how long do you think two marks will keep the man silent? Will he not soon ask for more, and then for more?”
“What man?”
Her husband took a step forward, obviously near to losing his control. “You may lie to whom else you like, but not to me. Not to me!”
“On Simon’s soul,” Alinor replied, “I have spoken nor acted no lie to you in this room here and now—nor any other time. What takes place in this chamber is between your heart and mine, and I do not and will not lie.”
That cooled Ian like a cold douche. What Alinor swore on Simon’s soul was true; she might risk her own damnation, but not Simon’s. His hands opened. “Let me understand you,” he said reasonably. “Your men took and held the messenger prisoner?” Alinor nodded confirmation. “By whose arrangement, if you did not bribe him, did he come into the hall just after the swearing so that his business would be known to all so conveniently?”
“By God’s or the devil’s,” Alinor replied soberly. “I swear it was not by mine. I told my men to release the messenger this day. So much was my doing, but I made no other arrangement. How could I? I will confess that, could I have arranged such a thing, I would have gladly done it, but it seemed impossible. How could I know where the woodcutters would be working? How could I know whether a sheep might have strayed here or there to bring a shepherd after it? Without such knowledge, I dared not tell the huntsmen exactly where to release their prisoner. Then, he had to be left bound lest he try to follow those who had held him. How could I know how long it would take him to loose himself? Or how long it would take him to find his way here? I bade them leave him near the edge of the wood, but they could not leave him too near. He could have turned about and gone completely astray.”
“Who knows of this business?”
Alinor thought that over, then shook her head stubbornly. “They are mine, to me,” she said. “They will not betray me. They have never betrayed me, no matter what I bid them do.”
“And you think I will betray them?” Ian’s voice rose again.
“Of course not,” Alinor assured him seriously. Then she smiled. “You will confuse them. In your desire to save me from myself, you will either forbid them to do such things another time, or you will bid them come to you for confirmation of such orders from me, or you will try to explain to them the danger to me in their obedience in performing such acts. In another place or with a different woman, it might do well enough. But I am the Lady of Roselynde, and these people have obeyed my lightest breath for nigh on twenty years—no matter who was my husband.”
“Now you listen to me, Alinor!”
She rose and went to him, grasping his upper arms gently. “No, Ian, you listen to me. I do not do this to dim your pride or to make my power blind your eyes. I trust you. I know you would never do me any hurt for any reason. But think. It is not a natural thing for men, even such men as these, to obey a woman. I dare not break their habit of obedience. Some day Joanna will be the Lady of Roselynde. If she marries Geoffrey and he lives, all will be well and you may s
ay my care was wasted. But if she marry another, or Geoffrey should die and some king should press upon her some brute… There may not be a kind Ian to protect Joanna as you have protected me. Even if her vassals are loyal, what could they do? The day that a small band of vassals could raise rebellion is over. It is the small people of Roselynde who will be her bulwark—the huntsmen with their longbows; the thieves from the stews of the town, with their long knives; the fishermen with their boats that overturn and their nets that tangle. They must know only that the lady’s word is the law.”
That appeal silenced him. He was not so sure that the day a band of vassals could raise rebellion was over, but he was not going to put that idea into Alinor’s head. In any case, it was horrible enough to think of Alinor in the power of a Fulk or a Henry, but Ian knew Alinor for a strong and resolute woman. The idea of Joanna, whom he had cradled in his arms and who still appeared to him as fragile and helpless as a new spring flower, faced with such a threat was inconceivably worse. His arms came up and drew Alinor close against him. She laid her head against his breast. After a moment, however, she lifted it. It was most unwise to allow Ian to think over their conversation at any length, or he would begin to find new doubts. A healthy distraction was in order.
“Ian, did you have speech with Sir Peter of Clyro Hill? He was avoiding me these past few days, I think, although I cannot be sure because,” she bit Ian gently, “because I was taken up with other things. And today, after the swearing, I wished most earnestly to speak with him, but Lady Ela nearly drove me out of my mind. How Salisbury has not murdered her, I will never understand. First she would not go because she was too weary, and after dinner was too late to begin a journey. Then she would go because the packing was all done, and it was too much to draw forth the garments she would need for the extra time. Then she would not because all the worry had made her breath short. Then—”
“Enough.” Ian laughed. “She may have been a trial to you, but Salisbury sets a great value on her and is fond of her beside. He speaks well of her always, although he knows her failings.”
“Now I can understand how he loves the king. He has a disordered brain. But what of Sir Peter?”
“He could not avoid me,” Ian said slowly as he steered Alinor toward the bed, “but I learned no more than we both guessed at the swearing. Something has made Sir Peter very, very uneasy. Perhaps it is only that something is brewing in Wales, and if Pembroke goes to Ireland, a strong hand will be lifted from the cover of that bubbling pot. It may not be all spite that made the king deny Pembroke’s desire to go to Ireland. Even though he is stripped of all authority, his presence makes men think twice about creating a disturbance.”
“Sir Peter heard of that plan?”
“Not from me or Salisbury or Pembroke, but Oxford’s tongue can run away with him once it is oiled by a little wine. Moreover, Llewelyn might well have told him for his own purposes.”
“But Lord Llewelyn is very fond of you. And you cannot tell me he has a loose tongue.”
“Not without purpose, no. Get into bed, Alinor. It is cold.”
Alinor cocked her head at him. “Ian, I want to hear the end of this tale of Sir Peter and Lord Llewelyn and Wales, and if we get into bed, we will stop talking.”
He laughed, pushed her into the bed, and got in beside her. “I am not trying to divert you. The tale—if it is a true thing, and not of my imagining—is quickly told. Llewelyn would think it no hurt to me if one of your castellans should try to shake loose your hold when Pembroke is no longer there. Whether Sir Peter is so much a fool as to think I would not come and settle with him—with or without Pembroke’s assistance—I do not know, but doubtless what Llewelyn hopes is that Sir Peter will appeal to Lord Gwenwynwyn for support, offering to do him homage and be his man instead of yours. That would give Llewelyn an excuse to rush to my aid and incidentally to challenge Gwenwynwyn, which is what he really seeks.”
“Lord Llewelyn does not think I would mind my castellan defying me?” Alinor asked in a rising voice.
“Now, now, do not fly into a rage. The whole idea is that you would get your land back and be rid of a castellan of very doubtful loyalty, Llewelyn would have done me a favor by aiding me in ousting that castellan, and—”
“And he and you and Gwenwynwyn will fight a war all over my property so that my people will be killed, their crops and flocks destroyed, and more of my rents will be in arrears just when the king plans to raise taxes and will probably lay a fine upon me for marrying you. I hope you thanked Llewelyn for his generous thought.”
Ian looked somewhat taken aback by Alinor’s mercenary analysis. “I said this was all my guessing. I do not know whether Llewelyn has anything at all to do with Sir Peter’s odd behavior. In any case, the war would not be fought on Clyro Hill or, at least, no more of it than necessary to drive out Sir Peter which, if he is not loyal, would be needful anyway. Llewelyn has his eyes on Powys, not on your lands.”
“Quite right,” Alinor replied tartly, “and my eyes are on my property, not on Lord Llewelyn’s ambitions. I would prefer he found his excuse for quarreling with Lord Gwenwynwyn elsewhere than on my land. It would be better, if Sir Peter is disloyal, to find a way that he should not return to Clyro Hill at all rather than to fight a war to oust him from it.”
“Now wait, Alinor,” Ian protested, “the man swore his oath and presented his token fairly enough. You cannot make any move against him, after accepting those and giving him the kiss of peace, without offending all your other men. And I say again, this may be all my imagining. We are building a mighty castle out of the wet sand of one odd expression and a seeming avoidance of our company. There may be perfectly innocent reasons for that, or I might have misread him.”
“I do not think you did, for I read his face the same way. And I know full well I cannot move openly against him now.” Suddenly, in the midst of her thought, she laughed and laid her lips on Ian’s shoulder. “If I had not been thinking of other matters, I might have seen his disaffection—if it is disaffection and not some other trouble—sooner. Then I could have refused his oath—but my mind was elsewhere.”
“Am I to blame for that?”
“Assuredly. If you were hateful to me, or nothing to me, would I not have applied myself to business to drive you from my thoughts? As it was, Sir Peter tried to speak to me—twice, I think—but I put him off and I cannot remember a word he said.”
Whereupon, quite reasonably, instead of blaming his wife for her carelessness, Ian kissed her soundly, and Alinor’s prediction came true. They stopped talking. Ian thought no more of the subject of Sir Peter that night. His application to his new business of being a husband was too intense to leave room for worrying about another man’s affairs. However, the ominous note in Alinor’s flat statement that she “could not move openly now” remained buried under Ian’s pleasure and came to the surface again the next morning.
Alinor had left the bed quietly soon after a predawn bout of lovemaking. Ian, expecting that she had gone to relieve herself and would soon return, slid off into sleep again. He slept heavily for a little while, but as the effect of his immediate exertions passed, he drifted upward toward consciousness. It did not take much rest to restore him. He was a strong man, accustomed to hard physical labor, and if anything, he had been too much rested in the past few weeks. Alinor’s voice, low but not unclear, brought Ian to full wakefulness. His first reaction was an intense anxiety that almost brought him up and out of bed at once. A second woman’s voice dispelled that impulse. Ian lay quiet, because he was still a little sleep-dazed and was trying to decide what made him feel so worried. The thought came to him that Alinor would not order her maidservant to kill anyone. That idea, naturally enough, restored his anxiety in full measure but with a definite object. Ian had no idea how long he had slept. That hellion he had married could have ordered ten or a hundred murders by now.
“Alinor.”
In a moment she was at the bed, putting back the curtains.
She wore only a soft green bedrobe that made her eyes look the color of the sea over pale sand and exposed her white throat. Her expression was as sweet and compliant as any man could desire; her voice, as she asked in what way she could serve her lord, was as soft and musical as if it could never snap as viciously as any whip. All Ian wanted to do was pull her down beside him and caress her. He steeled himself against the tempting weakness.
“Send your maid out,” Ian said.
Alinor raised a brow but made no protest. She sent Gertrude away, then returned. Her expression was still sweet, a half-smile still curved her lips, but her eyes were wary.
“What I desire now is that you remember what you swore to me here, last night, that in this chamber there would be no lies. Then tell me what you have done about Sir Peter.”
“Done? About Sir Peter himself? Nothing.”
“Alinor—“
“If you do not believe what I answer, why do you bother to question me?”
The green of Alinor’s eyes was hard as emerald now; the voice, still flexible and expressive, nonetheless held a note of steel.
“I will believe that you have not personally attacked Sir Peter with knife or sword. I want to know what orders you have given about him.”
“About him? None.”
Relieved of his most pressing fear, Ian grinned. It was rather fun to match wits with Alinor. He could see that she did not wish to anger him by refusing to answer, and he believed that she would keep her word and not tell a flat lie. In this chamber she would speak the literal truth. The trick was to recognize when the literal truth was as good as a lie, to ask such questions as would not force her into a stubborn silence and yet would produce answers that could be pieced together to mean something.
Alinor Page 28
