Alinor

by Roberta Gellis

  “Come,” Ian muttered to the gray horse, “let us have a little more, but not too much.”

  The ears twitched back, and the beast snorted. Plainly, it was accustomed to being spoken to. The easy tone, Ian realized, did not communicate what he wanted. “Ha! Ha!” he urged, and the stallion increased his stride. Ian’s lance took Sir Robert’s shield exactly right, a little off center, so that the impact forced it toward the body. He threw himself forward just as the gray destrier came down on his forelegs. Sir Robert slid sideways out of his saddle and grabbed at the pommel, releasing his own lance. Because Ian had made no attempt to slat off Sir Robert’s lance, it caught the young knight a violent blow as it responded to the pressure of Ian’s shield and completed the work of knocking Sir Robert out of the saddle.

  Ian wheeled his horse to see whether Sir Robert had landed awkwardly; the stallion, more a warhorse than a tourney mount, promptly reared, forelegs flashing dangerously to strike the unhorsed man. Roaring blasphemies, Ian wrenched his mount’s head around and called an apology. He was relieved to see Sir Robert climbing to his feet as he rode back out of the lists. Owain ran forward with a fresh lance.

  “Send Geoffrey with my compliments to Sir Robert, the man I just unhorsed,” Ian instructed quickly. “Tell Geoffrey to say that I was greatly pleased with the improvement in Sir Robert’s jousting and that if he is interested in serving under me, I will have some work in hand early in the spring. Whenever he is ready, we can talk of it.”

  He was about to add a little more—that Geoffrey should tell the young man where they lived and when was the best time to catch Ian at home, but the heralds were calling for the king’s champion again, and he had to ride out to meet the challenge. It was another young knight, and Ian unseated him on the first pass. Then there was still another, not so young this time, a jouster who had seen many tourneys. Neither unseated the other, but the blows his opponent delivered hurt and numbed Ian’s shield arm, which was a little tired by the repeated shocks it had taken in close sequence.

  Breathing under the tight-closed tourney helm was also becoming less easy. Ian was gulping air through his mouth, and he was growing dry for a drink as the activity warmed him, so that he sweated freely. He heard the king challenged again, “for the steading of Westfield in Norfolk”, and recognized the name of the challenger. Sir Thomas was no young lightweight either. Ian turned the gray horse toward the lists again, felt the lag in the animal’s stride. He wondered whether he had been wise to send Geoffrey to Sir Robert. It began to seem as if he might not be in any condition to receive him—or anyone else. The tip of his lance quivered, and Ian eased his grip on the shaft. He was tiring and clutching it too tightly.

  Careful, Ian warned himself, careful. This man probably has a good right to what he challenges for. It was a cursed mischance that brought him up against an opponent he was not willing to unseat when he was too tired to judge his blows nicely. The first and second passes were successful. His lance slid off Sir Thomas’ shield, and the blows he fended off did not shake him severely. The third pass was a disaster because his lance was flawed. It shattered as soon as it made contact with the opposing shield. Thus, the impact he endured was not diluted by any counterpressure.

  Ian gasped with pain as his left arm was slammed back into his chest, but long training held. He forced the arm up, tilting his shield, allowed himself to lean backward into the cantle of his saddle, and pressed his knee urgently against his destrier’s side. The horse turned sharply away from his opponent. With a scraping screech the lance point slipped upward. Painfully, Ian wrenched his head further aside, lifted the shield still higher, and finally thrust it outward as the lance fell away. At the same time he threw down the end of the shattered shaft he held and gripped the pommel of his saddle.

  The wonderfully even stride of his mount and instinct held Ian in the saddle. Unguided, the horse slowed and turned as it had each previous time. Sobbing breaths brought air back into Ian’s laboring lungs. Sufficient strength returned to his right hand so that he could lift his rein and bring his horse back into position, but he was in serious trouble and he knew it. If the challenger for the steading of Westfield demanded another three passes, he would never withstand them. The heralds were calling something. Ian shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing in his ears.

  Something was wrong with his timing, Ian thought dazedly. He should have had a few minutes respite while the challenger arranged for the next three passes. Then he thought resentfully that more was wrong than just his sense of time. He should have been accorded the courtesy of accepting or refusing the renewed challenge. Technically, he had the right to refuse and to demand a different form of combat to settle the question. He was too numb, however, to argue. Peering glassily through the eyeslits of his helmet, Ian tried to find Owain with a new lance. The squire was nowhere near. Ian wondered if he was so dazed that he had mistaken his position. He swung his head right, then left. No Owain, but his vision and hearing were clearing well now. He saw Sir Thomas at the far end of the field, arguing vociferously with Pembroke while two other knights were in position at the ends of the lists.

  Knowing his face was hidden by his helmet, Ian closed his eyes and uttered a short prayer of thanksgiving for his faithful friends. Pembroke must have known he was badly shaken. Doubtless he had raised some technical point of honor that prevented an immediate challenge and then said that the tourney should continue while it was settled.

  “Lord?”

  It was Geoffrey’s voice, just a trifle too loud and assertive. Ian hoped he did not look as pallid as he felt, but he had to breathe air unfouled by his own gasping. He lifted off his helmet and looked down. Geoffrey was holding up a bowl of wine, his hand shaking just a little.

  “Are you well, lord?”

  “I am glad of a chance to catch my breath,” Ian replied. “My thanks for the thought,” he added, taking the wine from Geoffrey. He drank, shuddered. “Child, it is not watered,” he exclaimed, then laughed shakily. “I am not so faint as to need that. Go bring me another, but more water than wine. I am athirst, but I do not want to add my drunkenness to my opponents’ abilities.”

  When Geoffrey returned, Ian drank more slowly. “Where is Owain?” he asked when the bowl was empty.

  Anger made Geoffrey’s eyes lighten to a flashing gold. “He is going over every lance inch by inch with Jamie to help him. He was like to die of rage when that one broke at the first touch. It was my father who sent me for Jamie. The lances came from the king’s armory. They should have been—”

  “Enough,” Ian said sharply. “A flawed shaft can escape any armorer’s eye now and again.”

  The three passes were over, but two other contestants had taken the places in the lists. Salisbury had now joined the conference between Pembroke and Ian’s challenger. Ian watched them for a moment longer, then reached out to tousle Geoffrey’s hair.

  “Tell Owain to leave Jamie to check the lances and come back to his place. I am ready to joust again now, and I will have to settle with the gentleman, who seems to be determined to win Westfield over my body.”

  It was not completely true that Ian was ready to joust again. His shield arm still ached, and it trembled slightly when he lifted it. He was tired, too, but he could not allow Pembroke and Salisbury to delay the challenge much longer. The king, Ian could see, was staring in their direction. He rode slowly around the edge of the field. His horse, he noted, seemed to have recovered faster than he and was quite light and easy in movement. The devil took care of his own.

  “But my dear Sir Thomas,” Salisbury was saying, “this is not a trial by combat. This is a tourney to celebrate several happy events. The king has graciously consented to show his love and respect for Lord Ian by permitting himself to be challenged, but no provision has been made for bringing such matters to a final conclusion. And there are so many others eager to try—”

  “Lord Arundel was offered a second passage,” Sir Thomas grated furiously, obviously repea
ting something he had said before.

  “But Lord Arundel—”

  “Please, Lord Salisbury,” Ian interrupted. “Sir Thomas has what he believes to be a just quarrel, and no fault can be found in him because my lance failed. If he desires another passage of three, I have no objection to it.”

  “There is no time, Lord Ian,” Pembroke protested. “We will be here long after dark.”

  Ian smiled. “I think what is best will be to take the matter to the king. I am sure Sir Thomas and I will both be satisfied with his decision.”

  What Sir Thomas might have replied to this mischievous suggestion would never be known. Before he could open his mouth, another voice spoke with asperity. “May I ask what goes forward here?”

  The four men, who had been concentrating on one another, were all startled. All heads turned sharply. Salisbury and Pembroke bowed. Ian and Sir Thomas, who were mounted, bent their heads. Salisbury began to explain the situation as succinctly as possible.

  “If Lord Ian and Sir Thomas both desire to conclude the matter,” the king said without allowing Salisbury to finish, “I do not see why they should not.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Pembroke agreed stiffly, “but that will make it necessary to allow any gentleman to do the same. In which case, those men who came late to challenge will need to forgo their chance. The days are short. It will be dark long before we come to the end of our list.”

  Something flashed briefly in John’s eyes. It might have been his dislike for Pembroke, but Ian did not think so, because the cold black stare passed over him briefly.

  “I see,” John continued. “That would be most unfair. Some of those who came late to challenge have ridden a far distance to join the sport. I am sorry to deny you, Sir Thomas. You rode well. It would have given me pleasure to see you ride again. But your cause is not lost. Perhaps something can be done to return Westfield to you.”

  This last sentence was dismissive. Sir Thomas could do nothing else but thank the king and ride away.

  “Your wife seems to be enjoying herself,” John then remarked to Ian.

  No doubt he meant to convey that Alinor did not care what happened to her husband. Ian’s lips curved a little. John had closed that gate to jealousy himself with his offerings for her next husband. Even if she had hated Ian, she knew Ian was better than Fulk de Cantelu or Henry of Cornhill.

  “I hope she continues to enjoy the jousting,” Ian replied, but there was suddenly a note of strain in his voice.

  It had just occurred to him why the king was anxious for the last challengers to have their chance. He bowed again and touched his horse gently. Perhaps it was the sweat drying on his body, but suddenly he was chilled. Fulk and Henry were both fine jousters. They, if anyone, would have the skill and would take real joy in laying Ian in the dust. They were here, at court, although Ian had not seen them, probably because they were avoiding him. Why had not their names appeared at the head of the list? Because they were waiting until the end to catch him at his weakest, a weary man on a weary horse. Dimly, Ian heard the start of another run. To kill him, he wondered. So that Alinor could be offered as the tourney prize the next day?

  A cry of pain and the roar of the crowd drew Ian’s eyes. He saw only the end of it, the torn belly, whitish pink guts spilling out and the bright red gushing blood, but he knew how it had happened. An ill-held shield had tipped the lance point into the soft abdomen instead of past the ribs. The ache in his shield arm made him set his teeth. An ill-held shield— Oddly, it was not the fear of death that stung Ian at that moment. It was that ridiculous remark about Alinor enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself because her husband was, thus far, a victor. Alinor had great pride. She would not enjoy seeing her husband die, but she would not enjoy seeing him tumbled into the dirt, either.

  Since Ian’s thoughts were conducive neither to ease of mind nor to lightness of spirit, it was just as well that the King’s champion was called for soon after the dying knight had been carried from the field. Owain was ready with a lance, muttering grimly that if this one did not hold he would skewer himself on the blunt end. Ian managed to smile and say it was not Owain’s fault, but his mind was not on his squire. He found himself ridiculously nervous, just as he had been the first time he had jousted at a tourney. He was not frightened in the sense that he was afraid of being hurt or dying; he was nervous of making a fool of himself, of doing something that would arouse contemptuous laughter.

  So fixed was Ian’s mind on the various stupidities that had moved him to laugh at inexperienced knights, that he very nearly committed the most gauche of all on his first run. He aimed his lance so poorly that it caught in his opponent’s and was nearly wrenched from his grip. He did hold on to the weapon and, presumably, the watchers thought he had tried some tricky refinement that had not worked, because there was no laughter. Ian felt his face grow hot beneath his helmet, but his shame was a private matter. Whether embarrassment would have led to further awkwardness, Ian never discovered. On the second run he realized why his lance had not been wrenched away. For sheer incompetence, no other rider he had seen that day matched his present opponent. His guard was awry; his seat in the saddle was terrible; in fact, he should never have been allowed on the field. What idiot had knighted this idiot?

  Diverted completely from any fear of incompetence, Ian inserted his lance cleverly between the man’s body and his shield arm—so open was his guard—and lifted him from his saddle bodily. Then he dropped him, contemptuously—unhurt and relatively gently—onto the field. To his dumb amazement, this neat, comic byplay was received with only the commoners’ roars of laughter. Instead of riding back to his place, he went over to Salisbury. The earl grinned at him and shrugged, motioned to him to bend down, and repeated the name Ian had not caught. That explained it. One of John’s passel of bastards. Before Ian could make any remark, the king’s champion was being summoned by the heralds again. Salisbury looked at him blankly.

  “We will rest you as we can,” he promised. “There were fortunately few gentlemen who wished to challenge you, unless they had a cause to do so, but there were others…”

  It was all he or Pembroke could do. Ian lifted a hand in salute and went to take a fresh lance. The encounter with John’s foolish, vain son had restored him. His shield arm ached, and he was still tired, but fatigue was not unknown to him. To his surprise, the fatigue did not seem to increase much in the beginning. For that he was sure he had Pembroke to thank. Simon’s old friend was a tourney master equaled by no other, and he could judge a jouster most finely. There would be two or three easy passes and then a hard one. Invariably, after that Ian would have a period of recruitment while other knights ran against each other. Robert de Remy was one of the most active, and Ian noticed with pleasure that he was really very good, better than his run against Ian would indicate. Probably he had been nervous; it was not an easy thing to challenge a man one is accustomed to thinking much superior to oneself.

  Alinor had been mildly alarmed when Ian’s lance broke, but mercifully she did not realize how badly he had been shaken. For some time she was able to watch the jousting continue without any real anxiety. Even when Ian changed his horse, although she knew he was being punished as severely as his mount, she could see no change in his graceful seat and outwardly easy handling of his lance. Worry began to prick her at the second change of mount. It was not only that she began to realize how bruised and achingly tired Ian must be. In addition, she recognized the horse. The gray stallions might all look the same to others, but Alinor had known each of them since the day it was foaled. Small differences in color, in characteristic behavior, identified them to Alinor. Ian had not changed to the third fresh destrier; he had remounted the first animal. That could only mean that he was saving the third stallion for some severe trial he knew to be coming.

  A young knight screamed, blood showing as he went down under Ian’s lance. Alinor shuddered and drew her furred cloak closer around her. It was horribly clear to her
that Ian was too tired to manage his lance properly now. He would never deliberately harm a virtually unknown youngster. She saw him throw down the weapon and call something to the attendants, ride over, curbing his horse to speak to the fallen man.

  “I am so cold,” she whispered.

  Immediately there was a furor of activity. A brazier was moved closer; new hot stones were fetched to warm Alinor’s feet. A spate of words poured from Lady Ela’s lips, mingling “I told you so’s” with personal complaint. Alinor’s hands were seized by a maid and rubbed briskly. Before quiet was restored, Alinor had her terror under control. If her smiles of thanks to those who attended her were stiff, they were still smiles, while the brisk patting applied to warm her cheeks had also brought color back into them. Moreover, often repeated in the spate of words was the pointed remark that the sun was well down in the western sky, it was overtime for dinner, and Lady Ela was hungry.

  She said it so often, and her high whine was so carrying in spite of the noises of the watching crowd and the other people in the loges, that the disaffection began to spread. Some of the courtiers began restlessly to look at the sun. The queen leaned over and whispered to the king. He made some soothing answer, but Isabella, once alerted to a desire of her own, was difficult to quiet or divert. She replied pathetically, her hand going to her abdomen. John cast a glance of venomous dislike at his sister-in-law. If Isabella left, the ladies would go with her, even Alinor, and half his planned pleasure would be stolen. He had waited long and patiently to watch her as her husband fell. Isabella spoke again, her voice rising on a sob so that Alinor caught her final words.