Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  Within a day of her arrival, Alinor received a note requesting that she pay a visit to the Countess of Salisbury at her earliest convenience. She was a little surprised. She had not taken to Lady Ela and saw no reason why Salisbury’s wife should seek her company—except, perhaps, as Salisbury’s wife, carrying some message for him. With Ian’s reputation what it was, it would be unwise for Lady Ela to invite him to her house when her husband was away. Alinor knew she would have to go, but Ian was out and she did not know where to reach him. Alinor sent a page for the bishop’s secretary, told him where she was going, and asked him to inform Ian when she had left and her destination as soon as he returned. She then threw a cloak over herself, summoned Beorn and ten men-at-arms, and declared herself ready to follow the messenger to the Countess of Salisbury’s house.

  The first thing that struck Alinor when she entered Lady Ela’s home was the immaculate precision with which she was welcomed, divested of her outer garments, her men-at-arms were arranged for, and she herself was shepherded upstairs to the countess’ solar. The house did not look like the dwelling of a lazy sloven, and the servants did not act like those of a careless mistress. Lady Ela, however, was reclined on a well-cushioned article of furniture, the likes of which Alinor had never seen before and which gave her a strong desire to giggle. It was a cross between a chair and a bed, narrow, with a high back and arms but with a long footstool attached so that the lady could lie down or sit up as best pleased her. Ela held out a hand, not to be kissed, as Alinor had at first suspected with a quiver of resentment, but to clasp Alinor’s.

  “It is so kind of you to come and visit me,” she sighed. “I should have come to you—a stranger and new-married as you are—but you know my sad health makes even such pleasures a painful effort. And the bishop’s house is so large and draughty, and there are so many people coming and going that I cannot bear the noise. Oh, please, do sit down, Lady Alinor.”

  Alinor complied with the invitation promptly. Now that she was no longer distracted by worry about Ian and the myriad problems of being a hostess to a large and complex group of guests, the expression in Lady Ela’s eyes, so much at variance with her whining voice and silly conversation, came into sharp focus.

  “You do me honor to invite me, madam,” she replied cautiously.

  “Oh no, not at all. I will always do for you and Lord Ian anything in my power. William told me, you see, that if it had not been for your husband’s help, he would not have returned to me at all.”

  The voice was so different that Alinor’s eyes widened.

  “Did Lord Ian not tell you?” Lady Ela continued. “That is a generous man, generous to foolishness.”

  “He did tell me,” Alinor replied after an instant of swift thought, “but what he did is meaningless. He would have done as much for a common man-at-arms, and Lord Salisbury would have done the same for him. There is no debt. I never thought of it again.”

  “That is generous of you, and kindly said, but I think of it. Of course,” Lady Ela’s voice changed suddenly again, taking on its normal high-pitched whine, as if she had given Alinor a signal and now wished to see whether she were clever enough to pick it up, “I do not know why I should care. You see how William misuses me, sending me off all alone to face the dangers of the road and to open the house and order the servants and all things, rushing off to greet his brother as if that is the most important thing of all. So cruel, when I am so weak and so troubled by a dizziness behind my eyes and a strange ringing in my ears.”

  The lips were petulant, the hands fluttered idly and helplessly, but Alinor was not looking at those attention-demanding distractions. Her eyes were fixed upon Lady Ela’s, taking in with amazement the bright and mischievous twinkle that dwelt in their pale depths.

  “Do you not think William is grossly unkind?” Lady Ela insisted.

  Alinor opened her mouth to utter an appropriate platitude, but a giggle came out instead. She gasped and choked. Not a muscle quivered in Lady Ela’s face.

  “I am sure he does not mean to be unkind,” Alinor got out. “Men seldom consider the burdens we women must bear. Look at Ian, inconsiderately spending his time ridding my lands of outlaws instead of staying at home to help me make the wedding arrangements and take care of the guests.” Alinor’s voice quivered and she uttered another gasp as she strove to steady it. “And never a word to tell me whether he was alive or dead.”

  “Men are dreadful creatures, are they not?” Lady Ela sighed, as if she were expiring. “They never seem to care about talking at the top of their lungs of the most private things right in the midst of a crowd. It makes my head ache. I can never do so. And men act as if strange servants had no ears and the noise does not trouble them at all. How they do not misunderstand each other more often is a marvel to me. I cannot think, much less talk sense, in such a situation.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Alinor murmured, all desire to laugh gone.

  This was the second time Lady Ela had stressed noise and crowds. The meaning finally penetrated to her. How incredibly stupid she had been, but it was a long time since she had been at court and, at that time, no one had been interested in the doings of one young girl—at least not interested in the sense of setting spies on her to hear what she said. In addition, the court had been different in those days—except for the few months when old Queen Alinor had sparred with the Chancellor Longchamp. Richard never felt he needed to set spies on his subjects. He was willing, even eager, to meet any rebellion or treachery they planned head-on in battle. There was no need for his subjects to spy upon him. Whatever faults Richard had, concealing his feelings was not one of them. John was different entirely. He was deceitful by nature and suspicious to the point of mania. Spies were as natural to his court as ants to a honeypot, and probably as frequent.

  “How stupid of me,” Alinor exclaimed involuntarily, and then, her own eyes twinkling, “here I have been feeling quite out of sorts, which you know is most unusual to me, and I did not know what was troubling me until you brought it to my mind. I am quite unused to the rush and hurry of a court. I think, perhaps, if it is decided that we will stay, I will have to seek out a house where I may have a little quiet.”

  “So wise,” Lady Ela agreed. “And then if one has any little ailment that needs physicking, it may be attended to easily in decent privacy and comfort.”

  The question of how often Salisbury, who was as strong as an ox, might need “physicking” flashed across Alinor’s mind, but it would be both dangerous and ungrateful to ask. Instead she said, “Now that you have so kindly solved this problem for me, Lady Ela, perhaps you would be so good as to help me with another. It is many years since I have been to court. I am sure the modes and manners are much changed from the time of King Richard. If it would not weary you too much, would you tell me how I must bear myself in Queen Isabella’s presence?”

  “I am seldom wearied by talking to one person at a time in a quiet place. Indeed, I find that a restorative to my health and just the kind of quiet liveliness that is best for me. And I am never, never wearied by giving advice.”

  That time Lady Ela’s lips twitched with amusement, and Alinor was betrayed into another giggle. However, both returned immediately to practicalities. On the subject of when to bow, what form of address to use, and similar matters, Lady Ela’s advice was clear and direct. She spoke directly, too, of the queen’s exquisite beauty and how great a pleasure it was to tell Isabella how lovely she looked and how well her clothes and jewels became her. It was never necessary to lie or force a compliment, for the queen’s taste was excellent, and the king was very generous in supplying his wife with any adornment she desired.

  Constant flattery was necessary, Alinor noted mentally, interpreting Lady Ela’s complimentary remarks quite correctly.

  “The only thing I find distasteful, and that is my fault, is that the queen’s ladies are so much interested in the affairs of the realm. The queen is in no way to blame for it. To her credit, she does not listen
to such talk and grows quite cross with the ladies when they wander from the more important subjects of clothes and jewels. I cannot but help agree with Isabella. It makes my heart beat much too hard to talk of those matters that are more fitted to menfolk.” The whine in Lady Ela’s voice was particularly pronounced. “Those foolish women think it a mark of a husband’s or lover’s affection that he have a loose tongue and tell them all his business. If that is true, I must be sure that William loves me dearly despite his lack of consideration of my feeble health. He is always wanting to speak of such matters to me, but I cannot bear it. It makes my breath catch and my head ache, and the dizziness behind my eyes becomes so great that I must send him away and lie down.”

  “How fortunate you are,” Alinor murmured dulcetly, “both in your husband’s affection and in the afflictions that save you from any chance of speaking unwisely. Now I myself am most curious about such matters; I was accustomed to be a scribe to old Queen Alinor and so I grew a taste for state affairs, but Ian will never mention a word of them.” Alinor stared wide-eyed into the keen eyes that looked so steadily back into her own. She had neither the intention nor the expectation of being believed, but she was satisfied by the approval in Ela’s glance. “I suppose it is because we are so lately married, and he has as yet no trust in me. Perhaps I can learn something to his benefit from the ladies, especially those in the queen’s confidence. Then he will trust me better.”

  “Some of the ladies,” Lady Ela twittered, “are more in the king’s confidence than the queen’s.”

  “Do tell me,” Alinor whispered, hitching her chair a little closer to Lady Ela. “I must pay especially close attention to them.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As word of King John’s arrival and destination spread, noblemen and their ladies poured into Winchester. Alinor was very grateful to Lady Ela. Owing to her advice, she had been in time to rent a small house not far from the castle. Ian had been hesitant at first, not wishing to offend either the Bishop of Winchester, who had offered them accommodation, or the king, if John should offer lodging. However, far from being offended, Peter of Winchester thought the notion excellent. Though he laughed heartily at Alinor’s excuse, no lady to his mind being less likely to be disordered by excitement or exertion, he said he thought it would serve well enough for those who did not know her.

  Ian waited on the king as soon as word came that John was ready to receive his noblemen, and came home very puzzled and worried. He had been greeted with what was, to his mind, suspicious blandness. Even though Salisbury had caught him as he entered the great hall to say he had smoothed matters over, it seemed unnatural to Ian that the king made no reference to his marriage except to ask whether Alinor had accompanied him. He had been almost tempted to say she had not, but too many people knew the truth. After a few minutes of pleasant talk, John had dismissed him with an invitation that amounted to a command, for himself and his lady to attend the great feast on Christmas Eve.

  More puzzling than the king’s apparent indifference was the casual manner of the court at large. The king, as Ian knew all too well, was practiced in the methods of deceit. However, Ian’s friends seemed glad to see him and neither hinted obliquely at trouble nor warned him openly of it. His enemies, an even better indicator, seemed healthily enraged by his profitable marriage. There were scowls and snide remarks where there should be and, although he was as watchful as he could be, Ian neither saw nor sensed hidden smirks among the king’s intimates that would suggest a secret knowledge of retribution to come.

  Alinor could make no clearer sense of what to expect than her husband, even after she had an interview with the king two days later. She had been summoned to a judicial session in the normal manner to make restitution to the king for marrying without her overlord’s permission. Ian went with her, full armed, which was not the usual attire for answering a summons from the king. John, however, gave him hardly more than an indulgent glance, as if to say he understood the protective spirit of the gesture but that it was not necessary. And so it proved.

  Alinor pleaded the danger to her estates and her son’s inheritance from reavers and disloyal and disaffected vassals and castellans in extenuation of her hasty marriage. She added that, the king being at war in France, she did not know where or how to reach him or how long it would be before he returned. If John remembered that Alinor’s messenger had found him without the slightest difficulty to announce Simon’s death, he did not mention the fact. He allowed the plea of necessary haste and disallowed the plea of inability to request permission on the reasonable grounds that Ian had known quite well where he was and that the fighting was over by that time. Then he set the fine at a tithe—one tenth the value of the income from her estates. It was a heavy fine, but by no means unreasonable.

  “You would have done better to take the man I chose for you,” John said with a smile when Alinor had bowed her acceptance and given surety for payment of the fine. “William of Wenneval is still alive and hearty.”

  “It was not a matter of choice for me,” Alinor replied softly. “I was married before your offer was put to me by King Richard’s order in the Holy Land.”

  That was, of course, the only answer Alinor could make, but she and Ian discussed the king’s remark at length. It was so natural, so reasonable a comment that, had any other person made it, they would have taken it as a signal that all was forgiven and forgotten. Neither could quite believe it of John. He was famous, or perhaps infamous, for never forgetting an injury or an insult. The court at large might take what had been said at face value because they did not know how deeply and personally Alinor had injured and insulted John. To Alinor the mention of the incident was a deliberate reminder that John had not forgotten. It seemed to her that the emphasis on Wenneval’s living was a threat that Ian would not live long.

  Ian shrugged that off indifferently. He agreed that John had probably meant Alinor to think that way, that the king no doubt wished to frighten her. He pointed out that there was little the king could do to implement the threat.

  “There are long knives in dark corners,” Alinor snapped.

  “Nonsense,” Ian rejoined. “The whole court now knows the story of our marriage. Do you think any would doubt where the order came from if aught befell me? In the heat of anger, when he first heard, the king might have thought to be rid of me that way, but he is cool now. He would never give so good an excuse for complaint to the noblemen, who are still whispering about what happened to Arthur. Especially now before he declares a most unwelcome and heavy tax. I think we are safe for now, at least until the Twelfth Day festivities are over. It is then he will declare the tax of one thirteenth, I am sure, and he will desire no cause for outcry until that is safe in his purse.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Alinor said, “but there are at least two others who are not clever enough to associate your death with the king’s tax and who probably believe that the king would not be sorry to hear that you had died of trying to breathe through holes in your carcass.”

  After which, she drew forth a marvelous thing that had once been Simon’s, a shirt of mail with links so thin and fine that it bulked scarce larger than a woolen tunic. It would not turn a sword blow, but under a man’s tunic, it would give fair protection from the thrust of a knife. From then on Ian wore it when he went abroad without armor, and Alinor breathed a little easier. However, the precaution was not necessary. Fulk de Cantelu and Henry of Cornhill looked daggers at Ian but drew none with their hands.

  On Christmas Eve, Alinor and Ian again appeared dressed as two halves of a whole. It was a day for magnificence, and they were as grand and bejeweled as the greatest lords of the land. It was just as well they had made the effort, because soon after they entered the great hall, a page came running up with a message that places had been set for them at the first table before the dais.

  “By whose order?” Ian asked sharply.

  “The king’s, my lord,” the page replied.

  “He
does me great honor,” Ian responded automatically, feeling Alinor’s grip tighten so hard that her nails bit into his wrist.

  It was far too great an honor. Ian de Vipont was a baron, but there were many with higher titles who should sit closer to the king in the hall by the order of precedence. In spite of their knowledge of John’s character, Alinor and Ian had had some hopes that Salisbury’s persuasions had induced the king to take the fine and content himself with that, at least for the present. This mark of favor ended that hope. John might swallow his spite enough to ignore them; he would never honor them. The king’s character could not change that much. What the king intended, however, remained a mystery until the crowd was finally seated for dinner. Then, before the first course was served, King John pounded the table and shouted for silence. When he had their attention, he announced that a great tourney would be held on Twelfth Day to celebrate the season, their victories in France, and the hope that the queen now carried for the future well-being of the realm.

  The room exploded in honest roars of joy and approval. A tourney was always a welcome diversion, and everyone was truly overjoyed to hear of the queen’s condition. John was over forty now. However little he was loved, if he should die without a legitimate heir, civil war was certain. That was even less inviting a prospect than a continuation of John’s reign. The noise quieted rapidly again as the king held up his hands.

  “Now this is a most joyous occasion,” John said, smiling on his subjects, “and I would not wish it to be marred by any personal spites. Thus I have chosen as my champion a man beloved by all and, in addition, newly married. Rise up Ian, Lord de Vipont, and accept my glove as token of your charge and of my love and pardon of any fault that may have come between us.”