Sir Guy rubbed the back of his neck, and pulled his beard. “Men? Four or five hundred should do, but the machines are another matter. You see, because it is not a moated keep but stands on a hill, the force of your missiles is greatly spent only rising up the slope while theirs have that much greater force. Lady, I do not know how to explain such matters to you in words. From the wall, the trebuchet can cast—”
“You do not need to explain. I see that clearly enough. How large would our engines need to be?”
Sir Guy shook his head. “How can I say in words? Larger than any on Roselynde’s walls except perhaps those that are made to throw stones out to ships on the sea.”
“It is well wooded at Clyro. Will green timber do for construction?”
“For a while, perhaps. It warps, you see.”
A nice young man, Alinor thought, but not too well taught. If he was to be useful, Ian would need to take him in hand. Ian— Her heart lurched. Alive, yes, but in what condition? Was he hurt? What did Sir Peter want? Would he hurt Ian if she came with an army? If he threatened to maim Ian in case of an attack, what should she do? What could she do? Perhaps she should go alone. She could promise anything. No, that would not do. If she were in Sir Peter’s power, promises could be wrung from Ian—and he would keep his promises in spirit as well as in the letter, which Alinor, of course, had no intention of doing.
What could Sir Peter want? Only Clyro Hill and freedom from obligation. All that nonsense about Ian conspiring with Llewelyn, that must have been some kind of blind, but what? What? Let him have the land, Alinor thought—for as long as he lives, which would not be above a few days. Then her eyes narrowed. That would mean killing the sons also. Ian would not like that. He would be furious. Well, then, furious he must be. Ian was hers, and no one would be allowed to harm him. But the land was hers also, and she would not part with a rod of it. They were both hers! Neither Sir Peter nor any of his blood should have land or man.
Alinor sighed, and shook her head. There was more than one way of losing a man. She might achieve Sir Peter’s death slyly enough to fool Ian—although he was sharper than Simon about seeing through her—but not the sons. And if she marched a small army halfway across England and into Wales, it was impossible that John would not hear of it. Of course, it was Alinor’s right to deal with a disloyal castellan as she pleased, but God knew what interpretation John would twist the action to mean. Thought of the king brought Salisbury to mind. Dared she write to Ela and tell her? Could Salisbury keep the king from acting? Was Sir Peter’s behavior somehow inspired by the king? No, that was not possible. He had been looking strange before John knew of her marriage.
Sir Guy had fallen silent when he realized that Alinor was no longer attending to what he said. He watched her expressionless face nervously. Her eyes looked right through him. Twice her lips moved slightly as though she was calculating, and both times she shook her head slightly as if what she had added was insufficient or unsatisfactory. Finally, she caught her breath as if an idea had occurred to her, and then she smiled.
“Please go and tell Father Francis that I desire parchment and pens to be readied. I will need to write seven letters. When you have done that, ride down into Roselynde Town and tell the mayor that I will have need of twenty men armed and mounted. Ten will be the town’s service to me, and ten I will hire at six pence a day, the extra two pence for the use of the horses. He will have my order for it tomorrow, and the men must be ready to ride tomorrow also. When you have returned, choose thirty of the men-at-arms and see that they are fitted and ready to ride.”
“We are going to Clyro Hill with fifty men-at-arms, my lady?” Sir Guy breathed.
“No, we are going to Penrwyn or Llanrwst.” Sir Guy’s mouth opened, and closed. It was not his business to question his lady. That the names meant nothing to him was not important. At least he had talked her out of going to war—maybe. More likely, she was going to gather men in Wales; the names sounded like Welsh. If so, there would be castellans or vassals there, men with more authority. Let them argue with her. Sir Guy went to do his mistress’s bidding with a slightly lessened foreboding.
Alinor went to write her letters with such eyes that Father Francis began to remonstrate with her even though he did not know what to say. He counseled patience and forbearing, submission to God’s will, at which point Alinor spat at him that she was submissive to God’s will. She was, as was written, helping herself as best she could and thus was counting on God to fulfill His promise and help her. And a good priest would pray for her, instead of hindering her. At that point Father Francis did retire to pray, knowing that his lady was beyond remonstrance. His prayers were a little confused between the well-doing of her body and of her soul, but at the moment Alinor would not have cared if he was praying for her damnation, so long as he let her alone.
The first few letters were easy. She gave a brief explanation of what had happened and summoned those vassals who were near enough to meet her at Clifford, with those men they were obligated to bring to her defense, in two weeks’ time. To Isobel she wrote a short note, containing the same information, and requesting her permission to use Clifford as a gathering point for her men. Isobel would certainly offer men also. Refusal or acceptance would depend upon the outcome of the rest of Alinor’s plans. Only the last letter was difficult. Alinor trusted Ela well enough, and even Salisbury, insofar as his intentions went. What she did not trust was Salisbury’s blindness to his brother’s real viciousness. Therefore, the whole story of Alinor’s intentions could not be told. She wrote as if she were in a furious hurry, dwelling largely on the treachery of her castellan. For the rest, she left all vague, beyond saying she was gathering men either to free her husband or to take vengeance for him. She named no names and no places. There might be some danger in that, but probably it was less than providing too definite information, which could give the king focal points for interference.
Bruse passed his letter into Lady Ela’s hands just after Mass the following morning. He did not bow himself out of her presence at once. Seeing him stand waiting, Lady Ela broke the seal immediately. She had been about to put the letter away until after breaking her fast. She always enjoyed Alinor’s letters and had intended to indulge herself with a relaxed half hour over it. However, if the messenger was waiting, Alinor must expect an immediate answer. Perhaps she intended to make a visit. Ela’s eyes brightened.
“Your lady desires an answer?” she asked.
“I do not think so, madam,” Bruse replied in crude and halting French. “The lady bid me wait to answer whatever questions you should ask of me.”
Questions? Ela ripped open the scroll and began to read. What questions could she have to ask a servant? Unless it was trouble—and bad trouble at that. It was.
“How long did you seek your lord? How far did you go from Clyro? How do you know he did not go to visit Lord Llewelyn?”
“I beg you,” Bruse faltered, “please, slower.”
Ela repeated her questions more clearly, and Bruse told his story again, beginning with the suspicions raised in him by the odd manner in which he was turned away from Clyro and pointing out how impossible it would be for his lord’s troop to pass absolutely unseen by everyone after having been well-noted on the road south. Yes, he had covered every road and track westward. After his first fright had abated, he also had thought Lord Ian might have gone to Llewelyn, and he spent some time searching.
“Was it a large troop?”
“No, madam, ten men and the two squires. It was all friendly land. All men he knew. He did not fear outlaws. They would never attack ten armed men who carried no goods.”
“Where is Lady Alinor?”
“I do not know, madam. She has left Roselynde—that is all I know.”
“Very well. You may go.” Ela turned her head toward a maid. “See that he is fed and given a place to rest.”
The words were a mechanical mouthing. Lady Ela’s mind was essentially busy with how she should
present this information to William, who was fortunately at home just now. Her immediate instinct was to accuse John obliquely of engineering whatever treachery had befallen Ian, but she soon thought better of the idea. William was a fool about his brother, but not such a fool that the suspicion would not occur to him on his own in this case. If John was innocent of this—and it was really possible that he was innocent of it because Ian’s visit to Clyro seemed to have been totally unplanned—and if Ela implied it was John’s doing, doubt might be cast on her future implications against the king.
No, let William come to his own conclusions. The best thing was simply to present the facts and transmit Alinor’s plea that the king be warned, so that he would not take amiss her moving a large number of men around the country. She did not wish, Alinor had written, to be accused of treason or of starting a war when all she intended was to have her husband out of Clyro Keep or to punish her own castellan who had broken his oath of fealty. Having made her decision, Ela hurried down to the hall, clutching the letter without even putting the finishing touches to her toilet. She expected a reaction, but not quite as violent a one as she got.
“What did you say has happened to Ian?” Salisbury cried, leaping to his feet.
“He has disappeared. Well, Alinor thinks she knows—”
“From where? When? He is not a child or a maiden to be abducted without a struggle. How—”
“William, do not shout so. You make my head ring. I never said he had been abducted. I said he had disappeared. He spent a night in Powys Castle and told them there he was going on to the keep at Clyro Hill. At Clyro Keep, they said he had not come, but the messenger was not allowed in and Alinor believes—”
“Clyro? Powys? What the hell is Ian doing in Wales? The last I knew he was besieging a stubborn castellan at Kemp.”
“I do not know what he was doing in Wales. Alinor did not take time to write the entire history of what happened, poor woman. Who cares for why he is there—”
“Ela, you are not silly, so do not talk silly. Why he is there might well have a bearing upon what happened.”
“Well, I am not a witch, and Alinor did not tell me, so how could I know? And if you do not stop shouting at me, you will not only give me a headache but shake loose what few wits I have. Why do you not listen to what I say? Or better yet, here, read Alinor’s letter.”
Lady Ela thrust the parchment into her husband’s hands, sank limply into the chair he had vacated, and watched his unguarded expression as he read. It was just as well she had not tried to put it on the king, she thought, as she saw the concern mingled with relief painted on his face. William had had his own fears concerning Lord Ian, but obviously they had nothing to do with the keep at Clyro Hill. In another moment, however, Ela raised her hands defensively to her ears.
“What does she mean she is moving men around the country?” William roared. “Does she go with them to war?”
“I must suppose she does,” Ela agreed faintly, cowering back in the chair. That aspect of the matter had not occurred to her before.
“That fool! How can Ian indulge her so much that he allows her to bring on his downfall and her own?”
“But William, if Ian is dead or imprisoned, how can he stop her? Be reasonable, do! Oh dear! Alinor is a very strong woman, stronger than you think, but this is out of all reason, I agree.”
“That idiot woman!” Salisbury exclaimed, striding up and down. “I do not know whether to ride first to John and discover whether his spies in Wales know aught of this—which is what needs doing—or to ride to Roselynde and see if I can prevent this feminine folly.”
“It is too late to ride to Roselynde. Alinor is already gone from there.”
“Gone? Where? To Wales already?”
“I do not know. Her man said only that she had left the keep. Perhaps she meant to tell me where she was going, but you see that her letter is ill-writ. She must have been in haste and greatly disordered.”
“Of a truth, she must be greatly disordered to conceive of such an idiocy,” William growled. “Does she think men grown old in war will obey her? Does she intend to instruct them how to build catapults? How to storm a keep? Does she intend to lead them onto the walls?”
“Oh, not that, William.”
“Are you sure?”
“Now William, you are allowing yourself to go too far. I do not really approve of what Alinor is doing, but there is some reason to it. Her chief vassal is John of Mersea, and he is little more than a score of years old. She does not really have a trustworthy man to control her men. You know what comes of that. What one suggests, the other says is too dangerous or not daring enough. Each wishes to be chief, and nothing but ill-will ensues. Meanwhile, the real business lies languishing. I am sure Alinor goes to keep the peace, not to storm the walls.”
The anger faded out of Salisbury’s face, to be replaced by a kind of pitying concern. “Yes, it is true, and Pembroke, to whom she would have gone, is in Ireland. But why did she not come to me?” he cried.
“Because she did not wish to bring trouble upon you, William. John does not love Ian or Lady Alinor. She would never ask you to do what the king would disapprove.”
Salisbury stood for a little while staring past his wife, pounding a fist into his open palm. Finally, he looked directly at Ela. “He saved my life, Ela, and—and I owe him a great debt for—for other favors.”
The color had bleached from her husband’s face suddenly. Ela had no time to be hurt by the oblique reference to the fact that Ian had taken Geoffrey after she refused him. She was struck at the same time with the realization that Geoffrey was with Ian and would doubtless suffer, or had suffered, the same fate as his master. She got slowly to her feet, clinging to the chair.
“Geoffrey is with him,” she whispered. “Go! You must go at once, William. Oh God, if harm has befallen the child, I will never forgive myself, never. You will never be able to curse me worse than I will curse myself.”
Two strides took Salisbury to his wife, and he gathered her into his arms. “Do not be a fool, Ela. Geoffrey would be in service now even if—if things had been different in the beginning. Whatever has happened, it is no fault of yours. And I could never curse you for any reason. Do not make yourself ill over this.”
“Thank you, beloved,” Ela whispered, “but go now. And send me word; as soon as you have any news of any of them, send me word.”
Fortunately, the king was at Oxford rather than London, and Salisbury was in John’s bedchamber by an hour after compline, catching him just before he got into bed.
“Where is Ian de Vipont?” Salisbury asked his brother, with no greeting and no introduction.
“In hell, I hope,” John responded spitefully, and then seeing his brother’s ghastly pallor, he frowned. “But if he is, it is not with my assistance. What ails you, William, to burst in on me and cry out for de Vipont without a word of greeting or explanation? I am not Ian’s keeper.”
“My son is with Ian. Where is he, John? Where?”
“How do I know? I swear to you, William, that the last I heard, de Vipont was besieging a castellan near Kemp. If he is gone from there— But I know the siege is being prosecuted with vigor. I heard— You mean he disappeared from the camp? When?”
“I am sure of nothing except that he was not in Sussex. Between Powys Castle, where he spent the night, and his wife’s property at Clyro Hill, where they say he did not arrive, he disappeared. Have your people in Wales heard nothing?”
John stared right through his brother, slowly shaking his head. “Not a word of de Vipont, but I have no really recent news from Wales. All is quiet there. I am ready to swear on whatever you desire, William, that I have no part in de Vipont’s trouble in Wales, whatever it is—I will go so far as to swear on the unborn fruit of my wife’s womb, if that will content you.”
Salisbury put an unsteady hand to his head. “Then what Lady Alinor believes must be true. It is the castellan at Clyro Hill that has taken Ian for some
private reason. John, she is gathering men to take the keep. I am going to lead them for her.”
“William—”
“Do not forbid me, brother. I beg you. My son is there. If Ian dies, Geoffrey dies.”
“I was not going to forbid you,” John said untruthfully.
He realized in time that forbidding William to go to his son’s rescue would be useless. He would not obey—and there was little John could do, because he really loved his half brother. William of Salisbury was the one man in the world John did not doubt or fear and could not hurt. This was an unfortunate complication to a clear and beautiful idea that had leaped into John’s mind. He needed time, a little time alone, to work around William’s presence.
“All I was going to say,” John continued, “was that you should go to bed. Have you eaten anything this day? No? I thought not. No! I do forbid you to ride out again tonight. You will ride headlong for Wales, arriving before the lady or her troops. If you give me a little time to think, perhaps there is some help I can offer you—and you need not look at me that way. I would not lift a finger to assist Ian de Vipont. In fact, I will tell you plain that nothing could please me better than to hear of his death. However, Geoffrey is another matter entirely.”
“I will eat, if you desire, but I cannot sleep,” William protested.
“Oh yes you can,” John insisted. He signaled to one of the squires of the body. “Go with him, William, and have a little sense. Eat and sleep, and tomorrow I will have something for you to make matters better. I cannot send troops with you. Royal troops in Wales can only mean trouble, but I will think of something.”
Hardly had his brother left the room when another squire was running to bid a royal courier make ready to ride at once. John sat down and bit his fingers. If the castellan had taken his overlord prisoner, it must be to gain the estate for himself. There could be no other reason for such an act. If de Vipont had spent a night at Powys and intended to be at Clyro the next night, the castellan must abut Gwenwynwyn’s land. Probably the castellan and Gwenwynwyn were friendly enough, but it they were not it would make no difference. If both had the same enemy—de Vipont—that should ensure cooperation for long enough to suit John’s purposes.
Alinor Page 46
