His voice cut off as, with a strangled oath, Ian rushed past him, again shouting for a horse. Salisbury started after him, but Lord Llewelyn caught at his arm.
“Let him go, in God’s name. I think he has just discovered the whereabouts of this precious wife of his.”
“But what if someone else—”
Salisbury left that unfinished. There simply was no one else, except perhaps some of the more enterprising servants of the keep or a few of Gwenwynwyn’s men. Ian was in no danger from either of those groups. Gwenwynwyn’s people would quickly barter the keep for their own freedom—they had no other hope—and the servants would be delighted to see Ian. He looked at Llewelyn.
“Would a woman—”
Llewelyn shrugged. “There are women and women. For all I said before that Lady Alinor was affrighted by the battle, that was said to stop Ian from trying to kill Gwenwynwyn here. It was the first thing that came to my mind. I say to you now, having time to think on it, that she would.”
Dismissing the problem of Lady Alinor for one nearer his heart, Salisbury next asked, “Have I your leave, Lord Llewelyn, to put some questions regarding these four hundred men?”
“By all means!”
“You will know what I know in two minutes if you seek in my tent. You will find there the king’s letter which brought me here.” Gwenwynwyn grinned wolfishly at Llewelyn and Salisbury. “You have won this battle, my lords, but you may have lost the war. The king will not be pleased at what has happened.”
Before Salisbury and Llewelyn were engaged in reading John’s letter, Ian was at the castle gates. He did not need to demand admittance. His horse and shield had been recognized by Alinor’s men who patrolled the walls now, and the gate swung open for him. Scarcely checking his pace, he rode through, across the bailey, flung himself from his mount, and entered the keep. In the doorway of the great hall, he stopped, breathing scarcely less hard than when he had been fighting on the walls.
“Madwoman!” he bellowed, “crazy bitch! How dared you ride out on a battlefield? What do you here?”
From the chair in which she had been sitting beside the fire, Alinor leapt to her feet. “Traitor! Sneaking dog! Thief!” she shrieked in reply. “I thought I came to save you. I find instead that I am barely in time to save my lands.”
Ian was struck dumb, not so much by what Alinor had said—he had not had time for the meaning of her words to sink through the roiling mixture of weariness, rage, and relief into his understanding—but by the fact that she had raised her voice to him. It was the first time in seven months that she had done anything except offer silence, sweet reason, or meek apologies. He strode down the hall, completely undecided whether he would take her in his arms to kiss or to strangle, but sure that the place for this flaming virago was in his arms.
“What do you here?” Alinor continued furiously as he came forward. “For very shame, I should think you would flee my eyes.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Ian asked, reaching for her.
“You call me a liar by indirection. Are you so innocent of that?” Alinor spat, holding him off. “Did you not connive with your beloved clan brother and my treacherous castellan to use me as bait to draw Lord Gwenwynwyn into war?”
Ian caught her hands and captured them. The rage of relief, an emotion very similar to that of a mother who embraces a child with one hand while beating it for engaging in dangerous mischief with the other, had gone out of him. He was too tired now to be roused to fury by anything else, and too relieved that Alinor seemed to have been restored to her normal, unreasonable self, to be angry at anything she said. Despite her struggles, he drew her against him.
“Do not be such a fool. The last thing I want is any war in Wales of sufficient import to interest the king. Do you think I wish to be summoned by both my overlords to fight on each side? On my honor, I have not acted in concert with Llewelyn on any matter of any kind since before I left for France last year. As for Sir Peter, I do not wish to tell you his tale now. You are too cross and would act in haste.”
It was a most unsatisfactory embrace. Ian’s armor was filthy and he stank. The rings of his mail bruised Alinor’s arms and back. Nonetheless, she grew quiet. Ian might refuse to speak, might act without speaking, but he would not lie, and what he said about the situation he would be in if real war came to Wales was true. She raised her face to him.
“Why did you turn my messenger away, then, and say you were not here?”
“I did not turn him away. That was Sir Peter. At that time, I was imprisoned. No! Hush!” He tightened his grip again as he saw her wrath rekindle. “I said I would not tell you that tale now lest you act in haste. And, in truth, Alinor, I have sorer needs than the need of revenge on Sir Peter. I am hurt, a little, and I cannot say how tired.”
“Curse me for a stupid, ill-natured witch,” Alinor cried remorsefully. “Can you come up to the chamber above, or shall I bid them make up a bed for you here?”
“Here,” Ian replied immediately, surprised at the unease he felt when the room he had been held prisoner in was mentioned. He then smiled and shook his head at the intensified anxiety in Alinor’s face. “Not because I am too weak to mount the stairs, Alinor. That was where I was locked in.”
“In the main bedchamber?” Alinor asked with surprise.
Still she did not respond directly to Ian’s nod of agreement. Instead, she pressed him into the seat she had risen from and went away briefly to make arrangements for a bath and bed for him. She did not return to the subject again until Ian had been bathed, had his wounds cared for, and was stretched on the bed.
“Whatever can the fool have been thinking of to lock you in there?” she muttered more to herself than to Ian, who was half asleep.
“Later,” he said wearily, but a frown creased his brow. “That is the only false note in his tale. To hang a prison cell door in the entryway of the antechamber was not the work of an hour, nor was it done the day I arrived. A door must be built to fit the frame, and the very frame of the door needed to be built, and that was no brief hour’s work. Thus, the plan had brewed in his mind for some time.”
“Oh no,” Alinor replied. “You may acquit Sir Peter of hanging that door. It has been there since my grandfather’s time. One of the castellans had fits of madness in which he tried to kill anyone who came near.”
“And your grandfather kept him as castellan?” Ian laughed, waking up a little in his amusement.
“The castellan was very old then. His sons held the keep and did well by it and the lands, and by their father also. What should my grandfather have done? You cannot cast an old servant out just because he becomes useless.”
“You are right about that.” Ian sighed, and his eyes started to close. Suddenly he opened them wide again. “Is Sir Peter by any chance of that brood?” he enquired. “It would mayhap explain what—to speak the truth—seems to me ever and ever more mad than vicious.”
“No. That is not the explanation. The younger son also became crazed and killed himself. The elder died in battle. There were no children—wisely so, I think—and my grandfather appointed Sir Peter. Sleep now, love. I think I hear the others coming in, and I must tend to them also.”
Ian’s eyes drooped shut, but he forced them open once more. “Alinor.” She returned quickly to bend over him. “See to Geoffrey’s head,” he mumbled. “The leech says it is safe, but you look at it.”
He slept through the next hours, while Alinor attended to the very slight damages suffered by Llewelyn, Salisbury, and Gwenwynwyn and examined Geoffrey and Owain to be sure they had been properly treated. After Gwenwynwyn had been settled into the locked chamber—exactly suited to both his status and his situation—she came at last to Sir Peter, who shied away and would not meet her eyes.
“I have done a great wrong,” he said at last with considerable effort, “but I meant well to you, my lady. I thought I would be a more faithful servant than one appointed by your husband through Lord Llew
elyn’s favor. My wrong was in misjudging Lord Ian, not in my intent.”
“Did I not tell you Lord Ian would have no part in anything not to my benefit?” The question was sharp, but the reprimand might have been much harsher and the manner colder had not Alinor fallen prey to the same suspicion herself. “He loves his clan brother well,” she added more gently, softened by the gray face, the bloodstained armor, the eyes dull with despair, “but he and I are one flesh, one blood, and one bone. You must never doubt him again. As for yourself—we are all weary now. Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She softened still further, remembering suddenly, as she looked into Sir Peter’s hopeless face, that the pain was gone from Ian’s eyes. Isobel had been right. “Go to. Rest well. Since things have come out not at all ill, you need not fear me. We will come to terms easily enough.”
Unfortunately, far from silencing Sir Peter, Alinor’s obvious sympathy unlocked his tongue. She had the whole story from him, but it was midnight before she was able to return to the chamber in which Ian slept. She entered softly, signaling the man and maid who accompanied her to lay the pallet and blankets they carried on the floor near the bed. Then, without speaking, she waved them out. Since Ian was still asleep, she would not wake him. She set down the platter of cold meat and bread she had brought with her and covered it with a cloth. Probably he had missed a meal, but sleep, she judged, was more necessary now. In the dim light of the single night candle, she undid her belt and pulled off her cotte and tunic. At the moment she had no idea where the scanty baggage she had brought had been placed. She did not remove her shift. Normally, of course, Alinor slept naked, as did everyone who did not sleep in the clothing worn all day, but the floor would be colder than a bed, and her bedrobe was in her baggage. If she had to attend Ian in the night she did not wish to be stumbling about naked or seeking for something to wear. Fatigue made her clumsy, and she bumped against a stool.
Almost on the instant, Ian’s hand pulled back the bedcurtain. He relaxed as soon as his eyes fell on Alinor, but as she moved toward him he saw the pallet and blankets on the floor.
“Are you hungry?” Alinor asked. “I have food—”
He did not answer that, but asked sharply, “Do you not share my bed any longer?”
“Of course,” Alinor soothed, “but you are cut about and bruised. I did not wish to hurt you. Will you eat, Ian?”
A slow smile, part mischievous, part sensuous, touched his lips. “Later, perhaps. Take that off.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ian,” Alinor protested reasonably, “I am tired to death, and you have done enough this day also. Eat if you will, and go back to sleep.”
He froze, then turned his head away. “Thank you, but I do not wish to eat.”
Obviously, this was no time for reason. Alinor caught her husband’s averted face and turned it toward her. “I was not refusing you, my love,” she said softly. “At least, if I was, it was for your sake, not of my own will.”
“Yes—Well—”
She could turn his head, but his eyes looked away past her into some unpleasant distance. He was so sore from her previous rejections that no words would soothe him. Alinor bent lower and put her lips to his. For a little while he lay quiet, accepting the caress passively, then raised an arm to encircle Alinor. Oddly, both passion and nervousness swept her together. She knew she would have no trouble responding to Ian tonight, but if her climax terminated in tears again, she would undo all the good her burst of temper had accomplished.
Perhaps if the pattern of their lovemaking were different, that dreadful, senseless grief would not come upon her. Lately she had been a completely passive partner; this time she would reverse the roles, as she had on their wedding night.
Ian was drawing her down beside him. Alinor resisted, and the pressure on her relaxed at once. She freed her mouth. He was staring at her now, face tense, eyes wary. Alinor smiled and pulled off her shift. Then he reached out eagerly, but she shook her head and lifted away the light blanket she had pulled over him.
“I said you had done enough this day,” she whispered. “Lie still and let me work.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I have a great doubt,” Ian sighed when Alinor finally lifted herself off him and lay at his side, “that I have done less in this manner than if you had let me mount you.” He laughed softly. “If fact, I know the contrary. You have more ways of raising a fever, Alinor… As God is my witness, I did not sweat in this day’s battle as I did tonight abed.”
“Perhaps that is true,” Alinor said giggling, “but at least you did not tear loose any stitches, as you would have done had you played your usual part. Sleep is a quick and easy mending for weariness.”
Ian glanced down at her, but he could see only the glossy black hair on the top of her head. He did not like her insistence on sleep. Her voice was not revealing, either. The low tone and slight breathlessness might be a natural result of their coupling, but they also might be produced by a struggle with tears.
“But I am now very hungry,” Ian said rather plaintively. “You offered me food before. Now I need it worse.”
Alinor chuckled again and rolled out of the bed. Ian pushed himself upright and watched her, but he could see nothing in her expression that conflicted with her laughter. When she handed him the wooden platter of bread and meat, however, she raised her brows.
“Why do you stare so?”
“Have I not reason enough? You are a sight to delight the eyes, clothed as you are in nothing but your hair.”
“Liar,” Alinor exclaimed, but smilingly, and seated herself on the bed beside him.
Ian took a bite of the meat and chewed reflectively. Alinor saw too much. He could not ignore what she said, nor could he come to the question he really wished to ask. “To call it a lie is too much,” he said when he had swallowed, “but I did have another matter in my mind while my eyes took their pleasure. I wondered where you came by the idea that I had conspired with Sir Peter against your will.”
Bright sparks of anger immediately lit Alinor’s eyes. “Why should I not think you desired Gwenwynwyn to take the keep when you rode out, leaving his men on the walls and the gates wide open. And one of the wounded men you left behind said you rode out with Sir Peter. What should I think but that the whole thing was planned between you.”
That made Ian grin. Alinor obviously knew by now that he had not been in collusion with Sir Peter. It was leaving the keep unprotected that was enraging her. “You will have to take my word as a soldier that it was a better thing to do for the safety of all—and of the keep also. Sometimes it is better to take a risk and act quickly than to try to hold everything tight. You are a greedy little devil,” he added affectionately.
It was so innocent a remark, so obviously meant to tease lovingly, yet it struck straight on the one sore spot that remained in Alinor’s heart. “Greedy am I?” she snarled. “Perhaps I am. Yet I am not so greedy as to take your jewels to give to a lover as you took mine to give to your ‘fair lady’.”
“What?” Ian said, pushing the food hastily out of the way. “When did I ever take a thing of yours? Even the jewels you pressed upon me when we married, I returned to your chests. I never—”
“How easily you forget—or do you lie? I did not think you would lie, but upon so sacred a subject—” Venom dripped in Alinor’s voice, a venom made more virulent from being distilled through tears for seven months.
“I do not lie upon any subject, for any reason,” Ian blazed. “Who told you such a tale of me?”
“Told me a tale? Would I believe such a thing of you for a telling? You did it before my very eyes! On the morning of the melee, when I was cold and wet with sweat for fear of what would befall you— And you did not even deign to bid me farewell! You took my sapphire necklet, so that some woman who does not care a pin for you—”
“On the morning of the melee!” Ian went white. “It is true, I remember now. I did take your necklet. In the name of God, is that what has lain on yo
ur heart all these months—the price of a necklet? Name it! Name the price! I will pay you in gold—or if that will not content you, I will buy it back from the whore I gave it to, even if I give double the worth. I thought my life cheap at the price—but plainly I am not worth a sapphire necklet to you.”
Alinor was staring with wide, starting eyes. “To whom did you give it?” she whispered.
“What does that matter? I told you—”
“Ian, answer me! It is all in all to me. Answer me!” Even the intense grief Ian felt at the crumbling of his goddess was pierced by Alinor’s intensity. “I gave it to buy information from a highborn whore—Lady Mary Gaillon, if you need the name—because she is known to bed de Quincy, and he is known to have a loose mouth in drink.” Bitterness overcame him. “Shall I tell you where she lives so that you can buy it back at the best bargain? Do you fear I will pay too much? I assure you it will be my gold that—”
“Ian! Oh, Ian!” Alinor cried, and flung her arms around his neck.
He pushed her away brutally, nearly weeping, so that she fell from the bed to the floor. “Oh God! I called you greedy in jest, but to see you cast into transports over one necklet— I cannot bear it!”
“Who cares for the necklet!” Alinor laughed, picking herself up and wiping her eyes. “You may give them all to whores for all I care! You do not love anyone but me? You do not, do you? Ian, do you love me? Tell me! You have never said it—never once. Do you?”
“Do I love you? Madwoman! I have loved you all my life, since I first laid eyes upon you on the road when you knelt to Queen Alinor. What has this to do with that accursed necklet or to whom I gave it?”
“Why did you never tell me you loved me?”
“Why did I never tell my best friend’s wife that I loved her?” Ian’s voice rose incredulously.
“Not then, you fool. When you came to propose marriage to me. Why did you speak as if—”
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