Like a sleepwalker, Ian also rose. FitzWalter had no choice but to follow suit and was shepherded out of the solar by his mute and fuming host. Fortunately, Ian’s squires were well-trained. Owain was occupied, but Geoffrey was waiting in the small antechamber into which the stairs rose, and Ian was able to hand FitzWalter over before his temper erupted. With scant courtesy, he turned away to hurry back to his wife. Alinor was leaning back in her chair with closed eyes.
“It is nonsense,” Ian said furiously. “And even if it were not, I am not a child. I have fought in enough wars where my blood rather than a ransom was sought. I am well able to take care of myself.”
Alinor opened her eyes slowly. “I do not fear your ability to guard yourself against Arundel’s party,” she sighed, “but FitzWalter came here for a purpose, and that purpose was not to warn you against treachery.”
“Of course not. He is John’s creature and came to frighten you—oh, and me also, I suppose.”
“No,” Alinor said. “At least, that was not his main purpose, although it might be a welcome side benefit.”
“Now, Alinor—”
“Listen to me,” she cried, getting to her feet. “His purpose was to fix your attention on Arundel’s party—”
“That is ridiculous. Where else would my attention be?”
“It should be on your own back,” Alinor exclaimed. “If you look for treachery in Arundel’s party, you will be blind to it in your own. You said FitzWalter is the king’s creature. Is he above running you through from behind? It has been dry for weeks. The grass is dead and brittle. How long will it be before the dust is so thick that the watchers will see nothing—”
“They are likely to see a hole in the back of my mail,” Ian put in caustically. “Do not be so silly, Alinor. That is the last thing the king would desire.”
“Oh, FitzWalter will not be alone in it. Perhaps he and the other favorites of the king, for whom it would be natural to fight in the king’s party, will have some arrangement whereby the hole is in the front. You will be surrounded by men seeking your blood. You must— Ian!”
Alinor’s furious and despairing cry was wrung from her because her husband, who had been looking more and more blank, had suddenly burst out laughing, slapping his thighs and stamping around in a circle.
“The king’s love,” he gasped, when he was able to speak, “that was what Vesci meant by appreciating the king’s love. I did not think Vesci was the kind for tortuous planning. And Leicester!” He began to laugh again. “I was furious with you, Alinor. Leicester came to me today and offered himself and four of his knights, and I thought you had gone to him and asked for his help. Now I see. Leicester and Vesci must both have heard what FitzWalter came to tell us.” Then he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes and sighed. “You need not worry about my back. There will be Vesci and his party, Leicester and his, and Sir Henry and Sir Walter.”
“Do not trust overmuch to Sir Henry,” Alinor whispered, fighting tears.
“You are not going to tell me that Sir Henry will try to harm me,” Ian said sarcastically.
“No,” Alinor found a wavering smile. “Do not be so silly, but he becomes blind with fighting and cannot keep more than the battle he is engaged in in his mind. He will be no guard for you.” Behind the words, she was thinking that she would need to get word to Sir Guy to watch especially for FitzWalter and any close companions. Then she knew she could hide her fear no longer. She went to Ian and put her hands on his forearms. “Let us go to bed, Ian,” she whispered. “I am so cold—so cold.”
Her hands struck like ice through his velvet sleeves, and he did not protest that it was very early or that a long night of love play was no way to recruit a man’s strength for battle. He gathered Alinor to him and carried her to the bed.
Chapter Seventeen
The day of the jousting dawned clear and fine, as so many days before had. The weather had been remarkably dry and mild through the entire autumn and winter. In the long hours of the night, while Alinor lay carefully still beside her sleeping husband, she had occasionally prayed for rain—heavy, pouring rain—but there was no conviction in her prayers. It could not rain forever, and the moment the weather eased, if only to a drizzle, the tourney would be held. Just as uncertainly, Alinor at one moment prayed that Ian’s knee would not be able to withstand the shocks of jousting, and at the next that it would be totally unaffected. If she could have believed that injury to his knee could keep him out of the melee, she would have been more wholehearted about her prayers. It was far more likely that he would fight anyway, crippled or not.
The jousting did not arouse the same terror in Alinor as the melee. There was much less chance for treachery in jousting. Although she did not doubt that some of the men who challenged Ian would try to kill him on the king’s instructions, Ian was no novice in the art. If he was not as deadly a jouster as Simon or Pembroke had been in their youths, because his slender body did not carry the same weight, he was nonetheless very skilled. She had seen him joust against Simon before Simon’s illness. It was a common sport for them in those days. Simon said he needed the exercise; Ian said he needed the experience; both simply joyed in the activity, and Alinor’s initial nervousness that one or the other would be hurt by accident had soon dissipated into pleasure at watching two experts in a magnificent performance.
It was thus not difficult to greet Ian’s easy waking with a smile, to watch him dress and arm, to ride with him and talk easily of whether they should send for their clothing and change at the castle or whether there would be time to return to their house. Ian insisted on the house, saying with a laugh that he would need to bathe to rid himself of the dust he would be rolled in, and it would not matter if he was a little late for dinner, as, king’s champion or no, he did not expect to win the prize for jousting.
They parted at the edge of the field. Ian rode toward the tent where the jousters could replace their armor if it was damaged, get a drink, or be treated for an injury. Owain and Geoffrey, leading two spare destriers, followed him. Alinor, trailed by Beorn and Jamie and four other men-at-arms, rode toward the loges where seats had been set for the king, those noblemen who were not taking part, and the women. A three-sided, tentlike structure had been erected over the benches to keep off the wind and charcoal-burning braziers warmed the area within. Hot stones were available for the feet of those who felt the cold.
Having dismounted and looked around, Alinor realized with a quiver of distaste that the space left vacant at the king’s right was for her. She should have known that it would be so. Ian’s appointment as king’s champion made it mandatory that his lady be seated in a place of honor. Her heart sank a little as she saw Isobel seated to the left of the queen. She had hoped that she could sit beside her friend, who would offer a word of courage or sympathy to support her, but she lifted her head and came forward to sink into a deep curtsy before the king and another before the queen. Isabella smiled at her quite graciously. She knew her husband did not like Alinor and, in general, she was not overfond of handsome women herself, but Alinor was very pleasant and amusing. John smiled also. Alinor watched the flash of his teeth beneath the dark mustache and wondered why they were not pointed more sharply. Surely a ravening wolf should have sharper teeth.
“Oh, do sit down, Lady Alinor.”
The high-pitched whine drew Alinor’s eyes before she needed, in courtesy, to lift them to the king’s. It was Lady Ela, well wrapped in furred garments, with a maid standing behind her so that she could lean back on that support if sitting upright became too exhausting. Another maid hurried up to remove a packet of cooling stones and thrust some newly heated ones beneath her mistress’s feet.
“Do sit down,” Lady Ela repeated, a trifle impatiently. “The wind has been blowing right through the space left for you, and my left side is aching with cold.”
Instinctively, Alinor looked up at the cloth of the tent, which was perfectly unmoving, and then, as she turned to sit, at the pennons,
which hung limp in the still air.
“I think I must have been mad to come here,” Ela whined. “It is all William’s fault. He insisted I would take pleasure in seeing the jousting. Why should I take pleasure in it? It will serve him right if I fall ill and die of this cold. And I know I will have a painful ague in my side for weeks and weeks, and he will say—oh, he is a monster about such matters!—that no one could have taken cold on so mild a day.”
“I do not feel very cold myself,” Alinor admitted, “but I am used to riding out in all weathers.”
“Oh, you should not do so,” Isabella put in, leaning forward across her husband to discuss this entrancing subject. “It is dreadful for the complexion to expose it in that way.”
“Ladies, ladies,” John urged in his sweet, mellow voice, “please allow Lady Alinor to watch the proceedings. After all, she must have a sharp interest in them, even if you have not. Her husband is playing a noble role here.”
“But nothing is going forward now,” Lady Ela whimpered after the barest moment of hesitation. “And I do not believe Lady Alinor is large enough to keep the wind off me. I feel a dreadful stiffness in my arm already. Ah! A twinge! I feel a twinge in my side!”
A hysterical giggle rose in Alinor’s throat, and she quenched it sternly. “Perhaps if I sit a little closer to you, Lady Ela, I will be able to warm you somewhat,” she suggested.
Ian dismounted when he reached the head of the lists and looked toward the loges, the rein loose in his hand. Before his eyes found what they sought, the rein jerked and there was a shriek of consternation behind him. The evil-tempered gray destrier had launched a vicious kick at someone who had passed unwisely close to his heels. Uttering a resounding oath, Ian grabbed the bridle and hung on to it, forestalling an attempt to rear, while he brought the loose end of the rein up to slap the nose of the stallion as it snapped at his arm.
“A very spirited beast,” Salisbury remarked, strolling over.
“Lord Rannulf’s strain,” Ian grunted, holding the rein under the animal’s lower jaw in a determined grip. “I swear the devil sired each and every one, but they know their business and are strong in work.”
“He will need to be,” Salisbury said dryly. “You are remarkably popular for a man who is not famous as a jouster.”
“What?” Ian asked distractedly, wrestling with his recalcitrant mount.
“I said your horse will need to be strong in work. There is a list as long as my arm that wish to joust against you.”
Snorting and stamping, the gray destrier at last gave over showing his displeasure at wearing an empty saddle by trying to kill everyone in reach. Although Ian did not relax his grip, he was able to turn toward Salisbury.
“I have come prepared,” he said neutrally. “My squires hold two other destriers. My horses will not fail. For myself,” he shrugged, “I will do my best.”
“I am sorry,” Salisbury remarked obliquely. “If I could have turned some of them away, I would have done so, but for the jousting that is not allowed.”
Ian understood well enough, but he had known John would encourage and possibly even pay any man willing to enter the jousts. It mattered very little to him. John might take pleasure in seeing him tumbled from his horse. It was a cheap and meaningless pleasure. Ian did not have the kind of pride that rested on invincibility. He had been tumbled by Simon too often for his self-respect to be damaged by a fall in jousting. His attention wandered toward the loges. Alinor, he saw, was in earnest conversation with Lady Ela. Salisbury followed his eyes and smiled.
“Ela told me your lady has not been to a tourney before. Do not worry about her. Ela will take care of her.”
“But Alinor is—” Ian began and then closed his mouth on the information that she was inured to a lot bloodier sights than a tournament. If Alinor wished to be thought of as sheltered and weak, she had a reason for it.
“She is not so incapable as you think,” Salisbury encouraged. “Keep your mind on your own business.”
At that moment the trumpets sounded, fortunately drowning Ian’s brief hoot of laughter. Salisbury hurried away to his duties, and Ian shifted his grip on the rein preparatory to remounting. After another brief tussle, he made it into the saddle. The heralds were calling his name at one end of the field and Arundel’s at the other. Ian settled his tilting helm over his mail hood and touched his now-docile mount with his heel to ride forward and take the lance Owain was offering. He fewtered it and watched Arundel do the same through the eye slits. The trumpets blew again. The heralds cleared the field. Ian eased his rein and touched his horse with the spur. Eagerly it leapt forward.
The impact of Arundel’s lance on his shield was minimal. It, as his own, was deliberately ill-aimed and slid off easily over his shoulder. The horses pounded past each other, slowed, turned, and trotted back to their positions. The second and third passes were identical. Conversation in the loges was hardly interrupted. This was the formal opening of the tourney, and everyone knew that neither man had the smallest intention of unseating the other. The only thing that could have altered the result was if one of the horses had been clumsy and slipped on the dry grass.
Formally, the heralds announced no result, offered another three passes if a conclusion was desired. Formally, Ian and Arundel declined, saluted each other, and rode back out of the lists. Two young and inexperienced knights took their places. Ian lifted off his helmet, rested it against his saddle, and watched with mild interest. He would need three new castellans for Adam’s property, as soon as he ousted the three who had not come to do homage. He had one man in mind, but if he saw a young knight of unusual promise, he might use him in the fight to regain the keeps and then, if the man was as good in battle as in the tourney, give him one of the smaller castles to hold.
The first two were useless. One did throw the other, but Ian shook his head in disgust. He would never have permitted so ill-trained a squire to be knighted. He was sure the stroke was luck on one side and sheer inability on the other. Owain, he thought, could do as well. Another pair came forward. One was a little better. He held his lance well and threw himself forward almost at the right moment. His opponent went down on the first pass, but that was more because his defense was poor than because the blow was of any moment. Not good enough.
“Challenge to the king,” the herald called. “Sir William of Barnsley will challenge the king for three acres of arable.”
Ian hissed with irritation as he replaced his helmet. He had forgotten that there might be genuine challenges, or that the king might offer restitution of contested property to those who would prove their case on his champion. Ian did not know Sir William. He watched the man carefully as he rode toward his end of the field. Not so bad. He rose a hair higher to the left when he moved to his horse’s gait. His left leg was stronger than his right. Once again, as the trumpets blew and Ian clapped spurs to his mount—a good deal more firmly this time—he wished he weighed two stone more. Since that was not possible, his trust must be in Lord Rannulf’s horse.
Nor was the trust misplaced. The speed that the gray stallion could achieve in a short distance was totally incompatible with its thick legs and heavyset body. Ian was two-thirds of the way down the field, and his opponent’s horse had not even hit its best stride when his lance took Sir William well left on his shield. The point slipped, caught a boss; the shaft bent as Sir William hung precariously. Then, as the man’s legs braced against the pressure, the stronger left leg, involuntarily reinforcing the push of Ian’s lance, tipped him over the cantle. Ian slatted Sir William’s lance off well to the side and rode on past.
The loges applauded a neat piece of work. The crowd shouted happily. The heralds called the result aloud. By prowess of his champion, the king was confirmed in his possession of the contested three acres of arable. Ian cursed John under his breath. He had no way of knowing which challenges were bribes. Had he known, he would have taken as good care as he could not to unseat an honest challenger. An inconclu
sive result on the field would leave the case open for settlement in the courts, where such cases belonged.
Alinor watched the pass with smiling approval.
“A well-placed stroke,” the king said to her.
“Yes, my lord,” Alinor replied gravely, her eyes demurely lowered so that John would not see the amusement in them. “It could not be otherwise, for he was trained and practiced by my late husband, Sir Simon who, as you know, was one of the great jousters of his day. Until Simon fell ill, he and Ian spent hours each day jousting. You remember, I believe, that Simon was as great a master of the tourney field as Lord Pembroke. Of course, Ian is too thin to be as fine a jouster as Simon, but—”
“I do not like it,” Lady Ela whined. “I do not like the way the dust is starting to rise. Just look. If the wind shifts, it will blow upon us. It is very bad for me to breathe dust. It causes a catch in my throat.”
Alinor turned to her other neighbor. “It seems to be settling very fast,” she soothed. “If it should drift this way, you can cover your nose and mouth with a veil, and I will fan the air away.”
The ridiculous interruption was very apt. Alinor was reminded that King John was not the right person upon whom to exercise her teasing wit. She had said enough to prepare the king for Ian’s continued success so that he would not be betrayed by temper into displaying his peculiar displeasure at his champion’s triumphs. At the immediate moment, it had also given John time to reconsider his next remark. In view of all the attentive ears so close around him, the king said something quite unexceptional about how fortunate they were in mild weather. By then, Sir William had been helped from the field, his horse caught, and the heralds were calling the next joust. Conversation lapsed.
The next challenge was again for the king’s champion, but this was only “to prove valor”. Ian knew this opponent and grinned in the safe concealment of his helmet. Young ass, he thought, as he braced his lance. He deserves to be set on his ear on the first pass. However, one makes allowances for the son of an old friend, and for a young man, some ten years younger than oneself. Ian hardly touched the gray destrier with his spurs on the first pass. He was a little surprised at the power of the blow he received. It rocked him back against his saddle-tree before he tilted the lance off his shield. The young grow up, he thought. Little Robert de Remy was twenty-one, not eleven—and he was a second son, a good boy, well-raised. Perhaps Robert would like a castle of his own to hold.
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