Alinor (19 page)

In the morning, Alinor lay abed somewhat later than usual. Her mind skipped from her dream of Ian to her quarrel with him and back again. The quarrel had to be mended, but how? She lay very still, battling the desire simply to run to him and beg his pardon, as she would have done with Simon. Just outside of her range of vision her maid Gertrude waited for her mistress to wake, wringing her hands in distress. She had to tell Alinor that Ian was gone. Not to tell her would bring swift and painful retribution, but it would be an evil day for them all. If the mistress could not vent her spleen where she desired, she was not averse to venting it on anyone who happened to be near.

Although it started evilly, the day was not as bad as Gertrude had feared. Her mistress' initial reactions were violent enough, but when Alinor had questioned everyone who had seen the new lord leave and had examined the chamber, her rage had diminished. For some time she had sat by her embroidery—as she had sat for weeks after the old lord died—not working, only staring at it. This time, however, the fit had not lasted. After a while, she had picked up the needle and worked with great industry. Finally, she had abandoned her position altogether and gone to seek Father Francis. Since then, peace had reigned. Lady Alinor and the priest had remained closeted together.

After Ian had flung himself down on the filthy pallet in the serf's hut, Owain tugged at Geoffrey's sleeve and drew the younger boy outside. At first Geoffrey resisted, terrified that his master would have some desire that he would not be there to fulfill. He was so exhausted and so fearful that it took some time for him to realize that Ian had fallen asleep almost as he lay down. That seemed as incredible to Geoffrey as all the other events of this totally incredible day.

"What has befallen?" Owain whispered. "Is he still mad? I could have sworn it was past. I thought he was near to falling from his horse with tiredness when we parted."

"I do not know," Geoffrey replied, his voice trembling near tears. "He was quiet all the way to the keep—at least, he was talking to Lady Alinor very pleasantly. When we came to the town he sent the—the dead men's bodies down with instructions that they be displayed by the gates with criers to tell the tale of what they had done and what their punishment was. Then we went in, and the lady called for a bath. They spoke of the wedding guests and the marriage contract. Then he told her of this hut and the dirt and fleas and said he needed cleaning, and she sent a maid for something, and—and—I do not know! Suddenly they were screaming at each other. I do not know why, and the maids ran out of the room and drew me out with them. I―"

"By God and all the blessed saints, it is the woman!" Owain exclaimed.

"It is because she is beautiful," Geoffrey sobbed.

"That is part of it," Owain agreed, "but he has played with those more beautiful, and they have never touched him. The difference is that he loves this one—and has loved her long, I think. Yes, yes, it must be so. He has been different, very quick to anger—which was never true of him before—since he had news of Sir Simon's death. I thought he was grieving for his friend and lord, but all the time it was the woman. I suppose he desired her and feared lest there be some dishonor in taking his old lord's wife."

Geoffrey sobbed again, and Owain grimaced and shook his head.

"You had better save your tears. There will be reason enough to weep in the days corning. A man in love is a devil to serve," Owain remarked from the lofty eminence of his two-year-greater experience of the world.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Suffering is, curiously, both immediate and relative. Alinor's maids, who had long bewailed their mistress' dull quiescence because it laid a weight upon their spirits, now had cause to look back to that period with longing. After she emerged from her long conference with Father Francis, the maids found their mistress had become far too lively. Nothing, however it was done, was done aright. Sharp slaps and venomous remarks drove the women from one task to another for three interminable days.

In the field, the men serving Ian were having a very similar experience. At first they thought their lord's bad temper was owing to their inability to lay the outlaws by the heels. There had been two minor clashes, but the reavers withdrew hastily as soon as they realized the farms they had attacked were defended by trained men-at-arms rather than serfs with cudgels. Ian's men had not pursued them farther than the borders of Alinor's land, according to their instructions. The men were well content with the results of their efforts. Not a single chicken or bag of flour or any other item had been lost to the outlaws.

They were puzzled by the lord's dissatisfaction, but a few finally thought far enough ahead to point out to the others that the lord desired to destroy the band. If he did not, they would have to sit here on the border forever. Even if the reavers raided elsewhere for a time, they would return as soon as they discovered Roselynde lands were unguarded again. Having got that far, it seemed reasonable that Lord Ian should be impatient until his Welshmen returned with news of the outlaws' camp.

On the second evening after Ian's return, the Welshmen slipped back into the outpost, to be greeted by caustic questions as to whether they had lost their way. Well accustomed to hasty and intemperate masters, their spokesman replied mildly that it was a large forest and they had assumed the lord would desire to know where the back trails and secondary lairs were, as well as which foresters knew of the outlaws' presence. That the reasonable refutation did nothing to calm their master's ill temper did not surprise the Welshmen; that he did not even seem pleased at their detailed report, which should make it possible for him to take the reavers by surprise any time he wanted, left them shaking their heads in bewilderment.

By midmorning of the third day, the men were slinking unobtrusively out of Ian's path whenever it was possible. Since Owain and Geoffrey had held their tongues, as befitted their station, which forbade gossip with commoners, Ian's continued black mood was inexplicable and, therefore, frightening to them. Owain was neither frightened nor puzzled, but the too-sensitive pride of early manhood made him burn with resentment when an undeserved blow or bitter jibe was aimed at him. He, too, avoided his master. Geoffrey alone, who had originally been the most fearful, was quite content to linger in Ian's company.

This was not because Ian was any more gentle with him than with the others. Twice Geoffrey, who was less quick at dodging than Owain, had been knocked right across the hut, and as many "clumsy louts," "dull asses," and "crawling worms" were launched at him as at anyone else. Geoffrey, however, did not mind a bit. Initially it was owing to his feeling of kinship with Ian's pain. It was true that the beautiful Lady Alinor was not cruel to Geoffrey himself; instead she was cruel to his lord. As the days wore on, however, Geoffrey's indifference to Ian's mood was because what his lord did troubled Geoffrey not at all. He had never minded a bruise or two, and he recognized that the insults came from Ian's spleen rather than from any lack in himself. Moreover, never did those insults touch or even approach any subject upon which Geoffrey was sensitive.

A terrified and uncertain adoration of the being who had rescued him from hell, who was always kind and just, was changing into a deep and abiding love in Geoffrey. It had been impossible to be secure in his adoration when he never saw his lord really out of temper. The flashes of anger that Owain had described as Ian's lack of good humor had seemed too superficial to give proof of his lord's true character. Besides, in France his father had been near, and Geoffrey feared that Ian's behavior to him was softened to give Salisbury a good impression. Now that he saw Ian at his worst, Geoffrey knew he could trust him. Thus, when a messenger came from Roselynde Keep, it was Geoffrey who led him to Ian.

He found his lord seated on a stool and leaning back against the hut's wall, with his eyes closed. For a moment Geoffrey hesitated. He knew Ian did not sleep well and was reluctant to wake him.

"Yes, what is it?" Ian snarled without opening his eyes.

"A messenger from Roselynde, lord."

Ian's eyes snapped open. Geoffrey watched with sympathy as the swarthy complexion grayed. "Well?" Ian snapped.

The man opened the saddlebag he had been carrying over his shoulder and removed a large packet of rolled documents. Color flooded back into Ian's face as he hurriedly unrolled one, then a second. The marriage contracts. A quick check showed that all five copies were the same. Five! Alinor was taking no chances. One for her, one for him, one for the local church, one for the bishop's archives and one for the king. Ian looked at the four closely written sheets, and a faint smile— the first in three days—twitched his lips. It had taken some time to compose and no little time to make five copies. She must have started on this very soon after he had raged out of Roselynde.

"What said your mistress?" Ian asked.

"To ride in haste, lord, which I did, and then to do further as you bid me."

"That was all?"

"Yes, lord."

"There was no other matter? No letter?"

"What you have was what was given to me, my lord."

It was a stupid question, Ian knew. Naturally the messenger would have given him everything. Alinor was still angry, then. Ian glanced down at the contracts, reluctant to start reading. If she wanted to be rid of him, she could have written in clauses that he could not accept. His refusal to sign could be taken as a formal withdrawal of his offer of marriage.

"Take what rest you can," he said to the messenger. "You will need to ride again later."

Hellcat, Ian thought, realizing she had him in a cleft stick. The flash of rage, the determination to beat her at her own game and have her still, gave Ian the impetus to begin reading. He flashed through the document, sure that the temptation to withdraw his offer would be displayed prominently. There was nothing of the kind. A feeling that he had perhaps been unjust, balanced by a fear that Alinor was willing to marry him but intended somehow to tie his hands, set him to reading again, one word at a time, very carefully.

The second reading completed, Ian tilted his stool back against the wall again and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Hellcat, he thought again, but this time with fond admiration. Too proud to beg pardon, that was why she had not written or sent a message. The contract was all the apology he would ever get. And I am more than content, he decided. After all, if Alinor said she was sorry for her outburst, he would have had to say he was sorry for the provocation he had given her. That, he feared, might lead to more concessions on his part than on hers.

Ian knew he should feel ashamed of himself for misjudging Alinor. With his fears laid to rest, he recognized that she was not the type to use a mean subterfuge. She would stand up to him, knife in hand if need be, and fight him face to face for anything she wanted. However, he was too well satisfied with the outcome to feel ashamed of anything. He looked around at Geoffrey, who had not been dismissed, and stood patiently waiting for orders. Ian grinned at him.

"Never try to outguess a woman," Ian said. "She will do you in, every time. And what is worse," he added with a laugh, "you will be glad of it."

"Lord?" Geoffrey asked doubtfully.

Ian laughed again. "You have some years before you need worry about it. Go now and fetch me a quill and some ink—the bailiff must have some—and find out if there is a man here who knows the way to Winchester and the country thereabout, and—oh, yes—a sheet of parchment, and then send the messenger back to me."

Rationally Alinor knew that Ian would sign the contract. It was a fair document, following the suggestions he himself had made. There was no reason for him not to sign. Her heart, however, was not as easy as her mind. Every time she started to make preparations for the wedding, whether it was to consider the clothing that would have to be sewn or to arrange for the supplies that would be needed for the entertainment of her guests, she was shaken by nervous qualms. As a friend, she knew and trusted Ian; in a deep, personal relationship, she discovered she had no idea how he would act.

Because Simon had loved her, more than loved her, doted upon her, Alinor knew she could always get her own way with him. There was no similar assurance about her relationship with Ian. Certainly she had displayed her very worst characteristics to him and at the very worst time. It was not impossible that he would seek some kind of guarantee that she would be a more docile wife than the termagant she seemed. It was also possible that he would wish to punish her by letting her dangle. If she went ahead with inviting the guests and preparing for the feasting, he could add punitive clauses to the contract and expect she would agree to save herself the shame of a canceled wedding.

Alinor had sent her messenger off to Ian just after the prime. She watched the sun flicker in and out of the clouds, rising toward its midday high and then beginning to drop lower in the sky. She knew how long it would take to ride to the farm where Ian had settled. She knew how long it would take for a man to sign five documents. She knew how long it would take for the messenger to ride back. That time came and passed. Alinor closed herself in her bedchamber to think what next to do and to save herself from murdering someone in her impotent rage.

She felt a fool, of course, when the messenger did arrive, and she realized her careful calculations had not allowed time either for Ian to read the contract or for him to write the letter the messenger was proffering to her. Nor, she thought wryly, as she opened the letter, had she considered that he might not be at the farm. Ian's purpose, after all, had been to hunt outlaws, not to wait for the contract to be delivered to him. Her reaction to her own silliness was so strong that she did not even suffer from doubts of Ian's intentions when she realized the messenger carried nothing but the letter. It read:

"To Alinor, Lady of Roselynde, greetings. I have been well pleased with what you sent to me. Having added my name and my seal to yours, I have sent all to Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, that he might sign as witness. From thence my man will go on to Salisbury, both to bid William to the wedding and to have his name as witness to the contract also. I have written to him, of course, to say that he need not sign if he doubts the king's reaction. It will thus be some days before you will have your copy back again, but I desired to have all made safe before the king's messenger should come, if one should come. On another matter, I have knowledge now of where the camp of the reavers lies. I will wait some little time before attempting it, however, in the hope that hunger will make them desperate and they will come to me. Do not, therefore, expect to see me soon unless, of course, you have need of me. If so, send, and I will come. Written this ides of October by Ian, Lord de Vipont."