Ian rose as requested and stepped over the eating bench. When he reached the dais to accept the glove, he was smiling broadly. It was a great relief to Ian that John should take out his spite in this harmless way. He did not doubt that the king hoped he would be well-trounced or even killed, but he was reasonably sure that John would engage in no large-scale plots against him. He might well indicate to his cronies that he would be well-pleased if Ian came to grief. Even if the king tried to do more, Ian was not worried. He had friends enough to back him.
Because all eyes were on her husband, Alinor had a chance to gather her strength and pride. She knew the king had seen the first stricken whiteness of her face. His eyes had been on her, not on Ian, whose reaction he could well predict. Alinor hoped that her expression of fear would give him pleasure and convince him she was a silly, helpless thing. Without surprise she heard the king name William, Earl of Salisbury, and William, Earl of Pembroke, as judges of the tourney, thereby removing Ian’s most powerful friends from any chance of fighting in his party. She had not had any expectation that John would overlook so obvious a move, particularly when the choices would seem to prove the king’s favorable intentions toward Ian. After all, choosing a man’s friends to judge him could hardly be thought of as showing animosity toward him.
Twelve days, Alinor thought, I have twelve days. In that time Sir Henry could come from Kingsclere and Sir Walter from the Forstal. Probably the time was not long enough to allow Sir John to come from Mersea, but she would send out a man to summon him anyway. If Ian should come to harm—Alinor drew a deep breath and held it to prevent herself from panting with fear—she would need some loyal vassals. Sir Giles was close also, but Adam and Joanna had been left with him at Iford when word of the king’s arrival had come. Alinor did not wish to weaken Iford’s defenses in any way, and Sir Giles’ lady was not one who was capable of defending her keep. Ian’s northern vassals and his Welsh ones also were too far away to be of any help.
That depressing thought gave birth to a far more hopeful idea. There were a number of northern barons present. They were not especially friends to Ian, largely because they thought him too close and too loyal to the king, while they were well on their way to being outright rebels, but one thing was sure. They would not kill Ian from behind on the king’s orders. The problem was how, in twelve days, to convince them to fight on the king’s side behind his champion. Normally they would be in the opposition party. Alinor knew she might do a little herself during the dancing and entertainments that would celebrate the Twelve Days, and she might do a little with the wives of those men who had wives, if they had brought them to Winchester. However, a woman’s word counted for little in such matters.
Alinor needed a man, a man loyal to her, who would not be overly scrupulous in what he hinted about the king. Sir Giles would have been perfect, but Alinor had already decided he must stay where he was. Besides, Sir Giles had been involved in the original trouble with John. His sudden appearance at court would arouse sharp suspicions in the king. It might even spark so much animosity in him that he would forget appearances and move openly to attack Ian.
More cheering drew Alinor’s attention. The king had appointed William, Earl of Arundel, to lead the “loyal opposition”. It was another nice touch. Arundel was a competent man in battle, who was certainly no enemy of Ian’s or Alinor’s. He had known Simon well, and they had worked together in the administration of Sussex where Arundel held large estates when Simon was sheriff. Alinor curved her lips into a smile, acknowledging to those who bothered to look at her that she approved the king’s choice as a suitable and yet not dangerous opponent for her husband. Suitable he certainly was—for the king’s purposes. Alinor knew Arundel fairly well herself. The only subject upon which he was competent was fighting. For the rest, his head might as well have been a block of wood. Still, Arundel in himself was not dangerous, even if John should manage without his knowledge to seed his party with men who hated Ian. They were opponents. Ian would be prepared to guard himself against them. What Alinor feared was those who would join Ian’s party, either to run him through from behind when no one would see or to desert him at a crucial moment.
Arundel, Arundel. The words seemed to echo in Alinor’s mind, and pleasantly at that. Was there something she had not remembered about Arundel himself that might help Ian? It was, after all, seven years since she had spoken to the man. Then she smiled again, a real smile, not a mechanical curving of the lips, and her eyes brightened. It was an appropriate moment. Ian had just returned to his seat beside her. He was delighted at her self-possession and her seeming pleasure, although he was sure she was not deceived by the king’s words and manner. However, Alinor’s expression had little to do with Ian and, had he known the reason for it, he would have been appalled. Alinor had remembered what it was about Arundel that pleased her. Sir Guy had sold the king’s messenger’s horse in the town of Arundel, and Sir Guy was obviously just the man she needed for what must be done.
The next ten days were furiously busy for both Alinor and Ian, but the pressure was inordinately greater on Alinor, who dared not give the appearance of doing anything more than waiting on the queen, buying at the enormous fair that had opened to cater to the court, and visiting friends. The fair in particular was a godsend. It was there that she was able to meet a young knight-errant who sported a close-clipped beard and mustache in King John’s style. Alinor complained sharply that he had ridden across her path so suddenly that her horse shied. The young knight apologized most sincerely, saying his mind had been elsewhere. The lady would not be so easily appeased. Low-voiced, she continued to scold. The knight-errant apologized again, at length, even dismounting to stand beside the lady’s stirrup. Still she scolded, and, murmuring assurances, the knight remounted and rode along with her to her destination. If anyone had noticed the young knight when he arrived at Winchester, they might also have noticed that he was much richer after that chance encounter—but no one did notice. Word of the king’s tourney was spreading, and every knight-errant within riding distance was making his way toward the town to take part in it. There would be rich prizes in horse and armor ransom with so many of the courtiers competing.
The one important piece of good luck Alinor had was that Ian was too busy to pay much attention to her. He and Arundel had met with Pembroke and Salisbury the day after Christmas to arrange for how many would compete, which field they would use, and such details. They had to meet again to rearrange everything. For one thing, the king had suddenly requested a day’s jousting to precede the melee; for another, the tournament was arousing more interest than anyone had expected. Owing to the short notice, both Ian and Arundel had assumed only the knights at court would take part. Obviously someone had taken care to spread the word widely abroad. Every younger son who wished to add ransom money to his thin purse was besieging either Ian or Arundel for a place among his men. Before they could refuse and set hard limits, a message came from the king that no one should be refused; all were to be welcomed to this celebration of joy.
At first, Ian tried to keep this information from Alinor, but the queen’s ladies were not so considerate. It was not that all of them intended to be unkind, merely that many would not have cared one way or another about the fate of their husbands in similar circumstances. Moreover, Alinor had gone to considerable trouble to impress upon them and upon the queen that her feelings were exactly similar. Ian was a convenience. He had saved her from the king’s henchmen—Alinor did not hide her abhorrence of Fulk and Henry, but she couched it in terms that would surely please Isabella; she pandered to the queen’s pride by decrying their low birth. More, even, she affected a bright-eyed, excited interest, saying, quite truly, that she had never witnessed a tourney before. This opened the gates of speculation among the ladies, and Alinor gathered a great deal of information that her husband would have preferred she did not have.
When, at last, Ian found a chance to draw breath and look at his wife, it inevitably became
apparent that Alinor knew what was going on. Ian was shocked by her apparent calm. Rumors of his wife’s indifference to him had already reached him via a number of thoughtful ladies who felt such a man to be wasted on so cold a wife. Considering the source, Ian had paid no attention to the hints and invitations. Nor did he now believe Alinor to be indifferent. She might not love him as she had loved Simon, but she certainly did not wish to be a widow again—not here, when she would be almost completely in John’s power. Then, Ian deduced, if Alinor was calm, it was because she had some little plan working.
However, he did not see what it could be and he did not dare question Alinor, on the very slim chance that she did not understand that, as the size of the tourney increased, so did the danger. When Sir Henry rode in from Kingsclere and Sir Walter from the Forstal, he was rather relieved. No man disdains two loyal and worthy fighting men at his back. If Alinor’s plan was to call in her knighted vassals and castellans to support him, Ian had no quarrel with it. When Leicester came in with four of his vassals the day before the start of the jousting closed the lists, Ian was a little annoyed. Calling up one’s vassals was one thing; begging help from friends was another. He could say nothing to Leicester, of course. Had Leicester simply wished to fight, he would have signed in much earlier. For Ian to comment that Leicester had offered himself only in response to Alinor’s pleas would impugn the earl’s courage. Ian accepted his offer with suitable expressions of pleasure and vowed to himself to have the matter out with Alinor as soon as he saw her.
Later in the day, however, Leicester’s action was put out of his mind by an even more curious event. As he was returning home for dinner, Ian was accosted by Eustace de Vesci, one of the leaders of the rebellious barons of the north. Ian knew him and his two companions, Robert de Ros and Peter de Brais, fairly well. They were brave men, and Ian had nothing against them personally. However, their training and attitude toward government were diametrically opposed to his. Ian had long accepted Simon’s concept that the good of the realm must be considered equally with or, sometimes, even above one’s own interest. These men, like many others, did not disdain the good of the realm; they merely assumed that if their own interests were served, the realm would naturally also be served. Vesci, to Ian’s amazement, offered himself and eight other northern knights as participants in Ian’s party.
“You are very welcome, gentlemen, very welcome indeed,” Ian responded with a quizzical lift to his brow.
“We would crave the honor, Lord Ian, of positions directly behind your banner,” Vesci continued.
Ian stared into the broad, heavy face. A stubble of red beard showed on cheeks and chin, betraying the strong admixture of Norse blood. Briefly Ian wondered whether these men were taking this chance to remove someone known to be loyal to King John, who would make a weak link in the chain of northern strongholds that were to be committed to rebellion in the not-too-distant future. But Vesci’s eyes met his purposefully, and Ian put that unwholesome thought aside.
“If you desire it, I will do my best to arrange the matter,” Ian agreed slowly.
“We northerners must stand together,” Vesci said pointedly. “If we do not, we may be picked off one by one. We thought it best to serve in the king’s party this time. We wish to display our appreciation for the love the king has shown to one of our countrymen.”
That remark was not so palatable, but Vesci and his friends gave Ian no chance to reply. They wheeled their horses and rode off, shouting “’Til Tuesday,” leaving Ian to digest the various implications. The most obvious was that they wished to draw Ian into their group by associated guilt even if he was not a member of it in fact. That would be the more believable if the king began to show any resentment over the marriage. Ian rode home, sourly contemplating that idea, and presented it to Alinor. First she looked startled, but finally she shrugged her shoulders.
“Likely that is in their minds. They think that the king, who already has a cause for spite, will become more suspicious of you, treat you worse, and drive you into their arms. I wish it were so—not that you should be a rebel, but that the king could hate you worse than he already does. I greatly fear that nothing they or anyone else can do will alter John’s feeling toward you now.” She looked away across the room. “I have done you an ill turn by yielding to you, Ian.”
Cursing himself for a fool, Ian took Alinor’s hand. “You have made me very happy. The rest does not matter. John’s nature being what it is, sooner or later I must have fallen foul of him. Look at Pembroke, who fought for John’s right to the throne, who has been loyal in every way. He is hated merely for giving honest advice. At least I have a prize worth the whole world and more to me as compensation for the king’s hatred.” And then, seeking for something to distract Alinor, Ian added, “But I wonder what Vesci meant by that bit about their appreciation for the king’s love. You know, Alinor, the matter can be read in another way. Vesci could mean to hint to the king that if favor is shown to the northerners, they will ‘fight in the king’s party’; that is, they will be loyal.”
Alinor nodded. “I am sure they would take no exception to that reading. It can do them no harm, and will place no restraint upon them, either.”
There was, however, still another interpretation, one that did not occur to Ian until suggested by a not-too-welcome visitor. After dark, Robert FitzWalter craved admittance. Ian and Alinor exchanged startled glances, and Ian rose from his chair beside the fire with a black scowl on his face.
“I will go down and tell him you are not well and I cannot receive him,” Ian growled. “I could not prevent him from signing on to my party, but I do not have to receive him into my house.”
FitzWalter was also no friend of Ian’s, but there was a difference in Ian’s feelings toward him and toward Vesci and his group. This was based largely upon an act of cowardice or treachery that had been instrumental in the loss of Normandy in 1203. FitzWalter and Saer de Quincy, his boon companion, had surrendered without a blow a key spot of defense of the province, the great fortress of Vaudreuil, to Philip of France. Thus they had opened the whole area to easy and uncontested conquest. FitzWalter had excused his act by saying he had appealed to the king and had received neither any help nor even any answer.
This was perfectly true. John had acknowledged the plea by paying FitzWalter’s and de Quincy’s ransoms and had not punished them in any way for yielding the castle. However, it did not mitigate the act in any way in Ian’s eyes. Everyone knew that John was in one of his periods of lethargy. Had FitzWalter closed up the fortress and fought, it was entirely possible that John would have been aroused and come to his support. Even if the king had not wakened to action and the fortress had to yield in the end, the battle would have depleted the French forces or even delayed Philip so long that the change in season would have put an end to the fighting and saved the province. To Ian’s mind, FitzWalter was guilty of either cowardice or treachery—and that was a far cry from Vesci’s bold and open agitation against the king. Ian disagreed with Vesci, but he did not dislike him.
The firelight and the ruddy glow of the candles concealed the fact that the color had drained from Alinor’s cheeks. “Wait,” she said. “FitzWalter does not come here after dark on a winter night to make idle conversation. It cannot be wise to turn him away, no matter what you feel. Let him come up.”
A moment’s consideration convinced Ian that Alinor was right, and Owain, who had come up with the message, was sent down again to show FitzWalter in. The immediate shock of hearing that FitzWalter was to fight in Ian’s party having passed, Alinor’s complexion had returned to normal, but she kept her eyes lowered to hide the blaze of animosity in them. FitzWalter was a very likely candidate for an attempt to run Ian through. He must be paying in a variety of ways to retain John’s favor now that every attempt to retake Normandy had failed.
“In what way can I serve you?” Ian asked coldly, when Owain had brought a chair and FitzWalter was seated.
“Not at all,�
� FitzWalter replied smoothly. “On the contrary, I have come to serve you, Lord Ian. I have heard some rather disturbing rumors about this tourney.”
“Nonsense,” Ian snapped, glaring angrily at FitzWalter. The man was a coward and a treacher, but no fool. Doubtless his purpose was to make Alinor as unhappy as possible. “I have the greatest confidence in the honesty of Salisbury and Pembroke, and Arundel is too much a man of honor to lend himself to any irregularity.”
Ian started to rise, as if to show his guest out, but Alinor said, “Things can be done without the knowledge of the leader of the party. Of course, the rumors may be false. One need not believe them. Still, deliberate deafness can also be a mistake.”
“As your lady says,” continued FitzWalter, “I do not necessarily believe what I have heard, yet… There is a knight-errant of the ‘loyal opposition’ who is suspiciously rich for so young a man and one who has no great name. As with others to whom wealth is unusual, he has spent more than he ought on wine. He hints that there is a party within that party who has been paid—and promised more—in lieu of what ransoms they might have taken, so that they will devote themselves to making sure that the king’s champion will not come alive from the field.”
Ian ground his teeth, bitterly regretting that FitzWalter was seated in his own home so that he could not smash his mouth shut. Worse, the man was not even of the opposing party, so that he could take out his rage upon him on the tourney field. He was so furious that he could say nothing, but Alinor’s voice came smooth and unshaken.
“We thank you for the warning, my lord. It was kind of you to come with it. May I hope that you will also carry word of this rumor to the Earl of Arundel?” She took a vicious pleasure in the look of discomfiture on FitzWalter’s face, then rose gracefully with her hand extended. “I know you are in great haste to do this, so do not allow us to detain you.”
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