Another wave of the fingers brought a table, quills, parchment, and ink to the chair in which John sat. He began to write quickly, glancing up once to say that a second courier should be told to ready himself. One letter was very brief. It was addressed to a mercenary captain in a besieged castle in Sussex, and the words themselves were quite innocent. They announced the safe delivery of a son named Victor to the man’s woman. The fact that the action that would be induced by those words would be a breach of faith that would open the keep to its enemies did not trouble John and would not trouble the captain. Wax flowed to hold the parchment roll closed, but no seal was pressed to it, and it was a woman’s name that the king scrawled across the edges. A second letter, headed with the same name, bid the captain march his troops with all the speed he could get from them to Gloucester and wait there in the royal castle for further instruction. The messenger would not, of course, deliver both letters to the captain to whom they were addressed. Only the first would go to him. Once he received instructions to abandon the siege, the captain would know where to go to find his new orders.
John’s eyes narrowed as he considered the time element and the chance that Alinor’s troops, with William at their head, would arrive first. He chuckled softly. William doubtless would arrive, but it was very unlikely indeed that the troops would. She would need to argue and plead with her men, probably, and they would make one excuse after another. Very likely William would have to go and gather them after the woman had failed. By then—John drew a third sheet of parchment toward him and addressed it with rather fulsome compliments to Lord Gwenwynwyn, Prince of Wales.
“It has come to our ears,” the king wrote, “that a man who wrongfully seized our servant, Lady Alinor of Roselynde, and married her against our will is seeking to make trouble for you, our well-beloved and obedient subject. Ian de Vipont has conspired with his clan brother, Lord Llewelyn, to seize the castle of Clyro Hill from his own wife’s castellan and pass it into hands that will make it a lance pointed into the heart of your domain. We would not wish to have any quarrel erupt between you and our son-by-marriage, Lord Llewelyn, although in this case we will absolve you of any guilt in the matter if you must defend yourself against attack. Thus, it would be well to remove this troublemaker, de Vipont, before he accomplishes his purpose. If he should die by the hand of this outraged castellan, there would be no reason why the castellan should not become your vassal. We assure you that Lady Alinor, or her next husband, would cede the keep and lands to you, especially if they are already in your hands. We would have no objections to this. We would, in fact, urge that so just a reward for your effort to keep the peace be made.”
John looked off into space for a few minutes, a faint frown creasing his brows. Then a beatific smile lit his whole face, and he bent forward to write again, the quill sputtering a little in his eagerness. He had remembered something quite wonderful.
“We must warn you that no harm should come to de Vipont’s squires. The one is my own half brother’s bastard, and the other is a bastard cub of Lord Llewelyn’s. If the castellan should slay or have slain the boys, no mercy may be shown him. He must die! In that case, of course, it would be only reasonable that you appoint such a man to hold the keep at Clyro Hill as would best suit your purposes. Because we fear some harm may come to our kin, Geoffrey FitzWilliam, we are sending Sir Fulk de Breaute with four hundred men to Gloucester Castle. You may call upon them to assist you in any way you see fit—either to aid you in rescuing my brother’s and my son’s sons or to aid you in revenging their deaths. Sir Fulk should be at Gloucester in a week’s time, after you receive this letter, or perhaps it will be a few days later.”
A few more compliments and effusions on the esteem in which John held Gwenwynwyn closed the letter. John sealed it with his own seal, and the second courier was dispatched with orders not to stop, night or day, until that letter was in Lord Gwenwynwyn’s own hands and in his hands only. The messenger had the right to buy or commandeer horses wherever he needed them, but he was to be in Wales before this time on the next day.
That done, John leaned back and sighed with pleasure. Everything had come right. At the very worst, de Vipont would be dead, Alinor would be in Salisbury’s care, and William would be bidden to bring her to court. John would keep his promise to de Vipont not to give her in marriage—not at first. When he was ready, she would be glad to marry anyone he suggested. William would have his son back, and Llewelyn’s bastard would be in Gwenwynwyn’s hands. That would give John a lever to move Llewelyn with, because Gwenwynwyn, although he might be able to take Clyro Keep with what men he had, would not be able to do much more unless de Breaute and his men helped. Thus John could make Gwenwynwyn jump by threatening to withdraw the mercenaries, and Gwenwynwyn could make Llewelyn jump for the safety of his son.
And that was only the worst that could happen. Thinking of the best, John licked his lips as if he could taste his satisfaction. At the best, Gwenwynwyn would read correctly between the lines of the letter. That would ensure that Ian and his squires would all die. A very neat way to rid the world of two people of whom William was entirely too fond—de Vipont and that damned bastard William was always brooding over. William must love John and only John. It was intolerable that his heart should have room for others than his brother.
In addition, the castellan would be dead so no revelation about how de Vipont and the squires met their ends need be feared from him. Because it was her castellan, Alinor could be accused of treason, of the murder of her husband and his squires, of fomenting war in Wales. That would finish her. She could starve in prison, the boy could die—children died easily—the girl might be useful. The estate would come to the crown.
And there would surely be war in Wales. Llewelyn would come raging out of his territories to avenge the death of his base-born cub for which, whatever he was told, he would blame Gwenwynwyn. The two Welsh cockrels would exhaust each other, and John would have no more trouble with either of them for many years—if either survived. In Wales, war for power was one thing, blood feuds were quite another. It was a pity de Cantelu and Cornhill were still at Canterbury making sure that all the Archbishop’s possessions were transferred to the king. He would have liked something extra special in the line of sexual pleasure tonight, but there was no one else he would trust for that kind of party. Then John’s tongue flicked across his lips again. There was a new one among his wife’s ladies, a fourteen-year-old bride. He crooked a finger at a body servant and whispered in his ear.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sir Guy straightened his back and glanced behind him at the column of weary men that followed. The horses plodded, elasticity worn from their muscles by hour after hour of movement, jarring the riders, who were nearly too tired to groan. He turned his eyes ahead, noting nervously that he could scarcely see the nearby curve in the road. It was beyond dusk, very nearly true night. His eyes shortened their focus. Just a horse length ahead, Lady Alinor’s sturdy mare still moved steadily. Sir Guy set spurs to his stallion’s side, then prodded a bit harder to encourage the horse’s leaden response.
“My lady.”
“Yes?”
Her head turned alertly. Sir Guy could not see her expression, and in the dark her white skin glimmered palely—at least, Guy assured himself, it should be pale with exhaustion.
“My lady, it is nigh dark. We must stop and make camp.”
“Stop?” She put her hand to Pepper’s neck as if to judge its resilience, then glanced around at the road. “Are the horses too weary to go on at all? Have any failed?”
“We are all weary, horses and men, but I am most concerned with you, my lady. You will be sick if you do not rest.”
“I?” Alinor sounded stunned, and then laughed. “I rode with the queen—the great queen, I mean, not the painted puppet we have now. I crossed the Pyrenees on the wild goat trails, and I crossed the Alps in midwinter. If tiredness could kill me, I would be long since dead.” Then she laughed again. “An
d do not say I was younger then. It is true, but I was also tenderer of flesh. More than that, the queen was over three score years—and she laughed at us when we wept from weariness. The body does not fail when the spirit drives.”
“Well then, the horses are tired, and I fear the men—”
“You need not fear my men. They will ride until they die in the saddle if need be. It would be an easier death than that which would come from failing me at such a time. And they will not let the others fail. That is why I bid you place the townsmen between two groups of the Roselynde men-at-arms. The horses are another matter. Ride back and see if any are in bad case. I wish to continue until full dark if it be at all possible.”
“It will be hard to set shelters in the dark, my lady. I—”
“Shelters? What shelters? We will not camp. We must bait the horses and rest them until the moon rises. Then we will ride on. The men can eat if they wish also.”
“We will ride in the dark? Into Wales?”
“Are you a child, to be afraid of the dark, Sir Guy?” She watched him flush with chagrin—at least, she assumed a flush because he turned his head a little away. “The dark is God’s time, the same as the light. As for Wales, no band of robbers will attack fifty armed men, and there is no war in these parts. I know because I have just ridden through them.”
“The Welsh bowmen, I have heard, are no respecters of the peace.”
“No, but they are not mad, either. They do not shoot wantonly into a crowd just for pleasure. Ian has a good name in North Wales, and we are openly displaying his colors and carefully keeping to the road. We will have no trouble.”
Alinor was quite correct in her analysis of the situation. Sometimes it was true that there was a definite itching to the backs of the men’s necks, as if eyes were gently touching them, but no arrows flew from the forests, which pressed closer and closer to the road as they traveled north and then west into Clwyd. Sir Guy made no further attempt to remonstrate with his mistress, merely thanking God when she permitted the troop to stop and wait for dawn before they climbed the mountain trails.
It must be true, he remarked to himself, that God helps those who help themselves. It was Lady Alinor’s favorite saying, and it seemed to work every time for her. Not only had they come scatheless through the forest tracks and over the mountain passes but, when a large troop came galloping toward them in the near dark of the following evening, it was led by Lord Llewelyn himself. Guy remembered his momentary panic, but he was proud of the fact that he had not displayed it. He had shouted back a warning to the men, then spurred his tired horse forward so that his mailed body was between Lady Alinor and the oncoming riders.
Even as he went through the motions of making ready to fight, Sir Guy’s panic had been subsiding. He was recalling another conversation with his mistress, when he pointed out that Wales was a large, wild place. How were they to find Lord Llewelyn? he had asked. Months could be wasted pursuing that will-o-the-wisp through the forests—as others had discovered. Alinor was not much in the mood for laughter, but she had smiled at her young escort.
“Do not be a fool. Lord Llewelyn will come to us. Have you not felt the eyes on your back? Do you think a troop of this size can move through Wales without news of it coming to him? Where he was, I do not know, but I will wager your years of service owed to me as to where he will be. He will be at Llanrwst when we come there—or he will meet us on the road.”
An imperious voice called a question, and Lady Alinor replied, identifying herself. The leading rider dismounted at once and came forward on foot to peer into her face.
“Sister, what do you here?” Llewelyn asked.
“I come to seek succor.”
Llewelyn’s eyes flashed over the size of her following, took in the hanging head of her sweaty mare; his ears caught the husky fatigue of her voice. “Who follows you? How far behind? Where is Ian?”
She shook her head. “I am not threatened. Ian?” Her voice trembled. “It is upon his account and for your son that I seek aid.”
“In Wales? Ian has come to grief in Wales?” There was incredulity in the question. Llewelyn was a power in Wales. If his clan brother could be taken in battle and he not hear of it, his defenses were worthless.
“Oh no. It is not his Welsh who have betrayed him, but my English castellan. I—”
“So? Then do not tell me now. Come into Llanrwst, which is not far. Let your men and horses rest awhile. You can do no more tonight.”
Sir Guy caught his breath, expecting a sharp reply that might breed trouble from Lady Alinor, but she merely allowed Llewelyn to kiss her hand and murmured, “Yes, my lord,” most submissively. I am a fool, Sir Guy thought. She knows what she does. And after they reached the castle it was quite evident that that was no momentary weakness or accidental behavior. Lady Alinor knew exactly the right path to take to arrive at the end she desired. Sir Guy was coming to understand her very well. He saw the twitch of the fingers, the spread of the nostrils that betokened impatience, but no sign of it appeared in Alinor’s voice or manner. She was, suddenly, a frail and distracted woman pleading for help.
Yet not a moment was wasted. When Llewelyn suggested she go to the women’s quarters to wash and rest and eat, she sobbed softly that she could not rest or eat until her heart was unburdened. And so well and so vividly did she unburden it, so cleverly play upon the possibility that Ian’s squires might be used as instruments to break Ian’s affectionate spirit that Llewelyn saw his son being dismembered or stretched upon the rack. As if blind to his fierce anxiety, Alinor told him she did not know where to turn. She had summoned her men, and they would be at Clifford by the end of the week, but she could not draw an army around Clyro Keep while Ian was inside.
“I thought Ian’s Welsh vassals might know a better way, but I fear they will not believe me nor be willing to obey me. I thought, my lord, that if you came with me to them—or if you cannot, perhaps you could give me a letter that would—”
“I will not only bring Ian’s vassals but my own also,” Llewelyn broke in. “My brother and my son—” He cut that off, moderated the rage in his voice to add gently, “Do not fret yourself, Lady Alinor. Go now to your rest. I will send my summonses out this very night.”
Although he made no physical move, Sir Guy nodded to himself. Lord Llewelyn was performing Lady Alinor’s will as if he were a puppet on a string. It was natural, of course, that Llewelyn should go to his son’s and brother’s aid, but doubtless, if left to his own devices, he would have gone a different way about it. The land, after all, was not his. For him it would be cheaper to barter the keep for Ian and Owain and leave to Alinor and Ian the delicate problem of extracting Sir Peter from his ill-gotten property, without infringing upon the sureties Llewelyn had given that they would do no such thing. Now he was, if anything, more anxious and enraged than Alinor. It was plain to Sir Guy that Llewelyn believed no physical mistreatment could make Ian yield and also that he could endure a great deal. But if torture was applied to his squires, he would give anything to save the boys. Llewelyn’s one hope was that the idea might not have occurred to the castellan at once. If they came soon enough to Clyro Hill, Owain might be spared.
As he heard the next exchange, Sir Guy rose to his feet, following Lady Alinor. He was grateful for the movement, which permitted him to turn his face away. He desperately needed the relief of at least one grin as he listened to his mistress maneuver her way into accompanying Lord Llewelyn right to the battlefield. She must come with him to Ian’s vassals, she pleaded, because they must know her in case of future need. And she must follow with the army to Clyro Hill because her own vassals were at Clifford just to the east. Would she not be safer traveling with Lord Llewelyn himself than making her own way through lands in which she might fall prey to “some enemy”? She did not name the enemy, but Llewelyn’s eyes acknowledged the lever Gwenwynwyn would have if his clan brother’s wife could be taken.
Llewelyn’s counteroffer that she stay safe at
Llanrwst Alinor refused with insincere regret. She pointed out that much time would be lost by Llewelyn’s need to escort her back from Ian’s vassals’ keeps and that, not knowing where she would find Lord Llewelyn, she had not been able to leave word where her own vassals could reach her. Considering the news that had drawn them into action, she feared a letter from her would be insufficient. They would need to see her to be sure that she, too, had not been swallowed by an enemy. Sir Guy was not sure whether Lord Llewelyn finally agreed, whether he realized that she would find an answer to any argument he could put forward, whether he realized that she would go—with him or without him—no matter what he said, or whether he was simply so anxious to get to his son that he did not care if Alinor was safe or not. In any case, he argued no more and Alinor went sweetly and meekly to bed.
When Ian found the door locked, he did not bellow with rage or exhaust and bruise himself by a continued assault upon it. He had survived his father’s handling and remained a reasonably whole person because he was able to retreat within himself and endure in the face of irresistible force. The total helplessness of his situation triggered that old mechanism into action, but instinctive response was soon backed by reason. No doubt rage would be the expected reaction. Quiet acceptance might make his captor very uneasy and throw him off balance. Moreover, sooner or later, someone must come into the room. When that happened, Ian intended to go out the door, dead or alive.
He racked his brains for some hours longer, trying to determine a reason for imprisoning someone in the most luxurious apartment in the castle. The only thing he could think of was that Sir Peter wished to starve him to death and imply that he had died of illness. This was so ridiculous that Ian could not forbear a laugh, and took himself off to bed. Morning brought instant refutation. A complete meal for breaking one’s fast on the finest plate the castle held was shoved through the door slot. Ian, who had been wakened from his light sleep by the faint sounds of the dishes scraping along the floor, came to the door of the bedchamber and stared in blank incomprehension at the delicately arranged viands covered by a fine, clean cloth. Poison? That was as ridiculous as starvation.
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