Roselynde (39 page)

"These are high words, Sir Simon," the King said
harshly.

"I am sorry if I offend you, Your Grace," Simon replied
steadily, "but I must be sure that what you have given me will not be
snatched away upon some pretext, or even no pretext. More than that, I have my
honor. I must know that what I have promised will be performed in the way I
have planned. If I cannot be sure of this, then I will go back and take up my
duties again instead of taking the Cross as I had planned."

The King's expression, which had been growing angrier and angrier,
changed to pleased surprise. His monomania had been brought into action.

Longchamp uttered a single strangled oath and said, "And who
has thus moved your spirit? I have heard you call those who wished to save
God's City idiots."

"I have little interest in God's City," Simon replied
truthfully, "and still less in those degenerates who rule it and could not
keep it safe. But I have a deep interest in my King. If Lord Richard goes to
the Holy Land, I believe it to be my duty to follow him—provided I am clear of
oaths previously sworn."

"What oaths?" Richard asked petulantly.

The dose of flattery Simon had administered was very palatable. It
was much to Richard's liking to be told that loyalty to his person was a
driving force more powerful than the preaching of prelates. The final remark
that Simon's oath was more powerful an influence still was a disappointment.

"I have always been the Queen's man," Simon said.
"I swore my faith to her long years ago before you were born, my lord, and
I have never broken that faith. I needed your mother's yea-say before I could
ask to accompany you. Before giving her permission, the Queen made two
conditions. One, that I should accompany you as your shield bearer."

The King's blue eyes opened wide. His mouth opened, too, but
indignation choked his voice. When Richard had been a very young, very bold,
and very inexperienced fighter, an older, stronger man, more sensible and
cautious was necessary to save him from inadvertent suicide. Simon had ridden
with Richard, nominally to "bear his shield" and actually to protect
him. Richard was many years past needing such protection or advice now. Simon
met his affronted eyes and his rich laugh rang out.

"I said you would slay me outright for such a presumption, my
lord, but the Queen insisted I use those words. She said she was still your
mother, that she did not fear the enemies you would face but the allies
following behind."

Simon had chosen his words carefully. He had not said the men or
the vassals following. That would have been an open and bitter insult to the
nobles foregathered in the Hall, and would have been false. Richard's own
people loved him well. He had said "allies." There were grunts and
mutters of approval. It was the open belief of all of Richard's subjects that
Philip of France, who said the sweetest words and gave the kiss of peace most
tenderly, loved the English King so well that there was nothing he would not do
to help Richard from this vale of tears into another happier afterlife.

The indignation died out of the King's face and a kind of awe took
its place. The ability of his mother to see into the future always startled
Richard. Most often he refused to credit her warnings. They were usually
concerned with complicated political "if-thens." This, however, was a
clear, practical matter in which he saw excellent sense. Philip had been so
excessively loving that he had offered a band of highborn French knights to
fight under Richard's personal banner. It would have been extremely difficult
to avoid granting one of them the post of honor, to fight at his left shoulder
and guard his back. His mother's foresight had just removed that problem.

"Very well. My word upon it. As long as you are able, none
but you shall hold my shield."

"The second matter is nothing." Simon made a slight
brushing gesture. The matter might be first to him, but it would not be important
to Richard. "It concerns the governance of Lady Alinor Devaux, your ward,
entrusted to me. As you may remember, Lady Alinor is of a turbulent
nature." Simon grinned and Richard laughed outright. "In spite of
this, or perhaps because of it, the Queen loves her. She will not have Alinor
or her lands entrusted to anyone but herself in the event of my death."

"By all means," Richard responded readily, seeing a way
to rid himself of Longchamp's importunities and the entire problem. "An
excellent idea. The Queen is best fitted for so onerous a task. Do you come to
me after the Court and I will transfer her, her lands, and her vagaries to the
Queen's care this very day."

"Then that is all my business, my lord," Simon said,
being very careful not to allow his eyes to stray to Longchamp. "When you
pick up your cross, I shall also."

The business of the Court moved on to other matters, land disputes
that needed settlement before the King left, castellans to be sworn, a tax on
traveling merchants to be adjusted. Simon paid little attention and was glad
when the short session was over. The assignment of Alinor as the Queen's ward,
retaining her revenues to the King's use, took little time although Simon
insisted stubbornly that Longchamp sign the charter as witness so that he could
not later say he knew nothing of the matter. At last Simon was free to consider
his own affairs.

No more had been said about his deputy. No more had needed to be
said. If Alinor and her property were in the Queen's hands, even Longchamp
would not dare meddle with them. Nor would there be much use in contesting
about the office of Sheriff in Sussex. Doubtless the Queen would protect all
her liegeman's interests. Simon was sure that Longchamp knew he had bitten off
more than he could chew. Of course Simon had not accomplished his full purpose,
either. Richard had not reprimanded Longchamp or sworn him over not to
interfere in other similar situations. Simon shrugged and went out into the
bailey and thence to the stables to check on his horses. One could not have
everything; he was not ill-content with his day's work. He still thought the
Crusade was a form of insanity, but the more he considered Richard's heir the
more it seemed necessary to preserve the King's life. In addition, he foresaw
great personal profit in close intimacy with the King. Richard had his faults,
but a lack of generosity was not one of them. William Marshal had Isobel of
Clare as a reward for loyal service from a far less generous master. Simon,
driven by Alinor's continual assault on his senses, intended to build enough
credit with the King to ask for her. The very fact that they were apart, that
he could not be accused of meddling with the lady herself, would make such a
request more reasonable.

The only shadow on his satisfaction was Alinor's reaction. He
feared she would scarcely see the matter in the same light as he did. He was
not sure what she had intended, but he imagined she expected to win the Queen's
permission. In that, Simon knew her to be mistaken. Queen Alinor was far less
likely to give away a valuable prize than the King. Although Simon had not
contested Alinor's interpretation of the Queen's words, he knew quite well that
the Queen
was
suggesting an illicit affair.

Love her as he did, Simon did not pretend for a moment that the
Queen had any morals at all. Alinor's contention that the Queen would approve
the affair as a step toward marriage because she knew Simon was nonsense. Simon
had never had any reason to be particularly virtuous with women as far as the Queen
knew. Besides the Queen also knew Alinor. What she was counting upon was that
the eager girl would trap him or simply wear down his resistance. Simon
contemplatively stroked the neck of the magnificent gray destrier Alinor had
urged upon him—one of her grandfather's own mounts and of Lord Rannulf's own
breeding. The Queen was not far wrong in that aspect of her thinking. Had it
not been so bitterly cold on that ship crossing the Channel, Alinor might have
been a maid no longer. Simon had been careful to provide no more such
opportunities to his fair temptress.

There were two things, however, the Queen did not know. She
assumed Alinor would be content with Simon's body, more content in that there
would be stimulation of hiding and whispering to heighten the delights of love.
In this she misjudged Alinor. Simon knew, all too well, that Alinor's body was
warm and eager for love, but her body was not central to her existence as with
most women. She was really more interested in the fishing trade and how the politics
of the Low Countries would influence the price of fleeces. Alinor wanted what
she had seen between her grandfather and grandmother. She had told Simon about
their life together. She had neither taste nor time for clandestine love. The
other thing the Queen did not know, of course, was the stupid way the charter
for Alinor's lands was written. His clever witch was counting on that. Perhaps
she was not deceived at all about the Queen's intentions. In any case, Simon
decided, sighing and leaning against the horse, it was safest to take to his
heels. Too much of Alinor would undo him.

It had undone him already, Simon thought, and began to laugh
wryly. Here he was hiding in the stable to escape telling Alinor what he had
done. Of course he could say with perfect truth that he had been ordered to
accompany Richard by the Queen. A great hero am I, he thought, hiding from one
woman behind the skirts of another. That was just a thought to cover his real
fear. Simon did not care for Alinor's rages; he only feared her tears.

Cowardice, Simon discovered, breeds a lively stealth of mind.
Alinor was a very well-trained young woman, and her public manners were
irreproachable. In public she would neither rage nor weep. Then he must tell
her after dinner, during the dancing or entertainment that would follow. There
were no moonlit gardens at this season of the year to lead him into and, by the
time they could be private, say the next morning, the obvious good that could
come from his arrangements would have made Alinor reasonable. Relief flooded
Simon at this solution to his problem and he spent the time until he needed to
change into more elaborate robes for dinner in planning just what he would say.

Naturally enough, because Simon had given so much thought to the
matter, the anxiety, the hiding, the planning were all totally unnecessary. He
could have told Alinor in one flat sentence rather than in the carefully
designed phrases he had used. As he spoke, he saw that she was prepared for his
news. She showed no sign of holding back either rage or tears. Certainly Alinor
was not overjoyed at the idea of their renewed separation but, as she told him,
it was not imminent. The Queen intended to accompany the King at least as far
as Chinon in Poitou. Simon's expression brought a burst of laughter from her.

"My lord, my lord," she murmured, "it is fortunate
I am a trusting woman. For another man such a face could mean only that love
was looking elsewhere."

"I could wish heartily that it was," Simon groaned.
"You will make me unfit to live with myself, and that is not a good way
for a man to go to war."

They were standing a little apart from a group watching a juggler
who now had seven flashing knives flying through the air. As he had added to
his initial three and the crowd's attention grew more fixed, Alinor sidled
closer. In Simon's opinion they were already standing too close. When he moved
to step away, Alinor, who had till now been very careful of appearances in
public, held him fast.

"There is no need to be discreet any longer," she said
sharply.

"Alinor," Simon protested, "you will leave me no
choice but to avoid you altogether. However much it may hurt me or you, I will
do it. If it gives you joy, I might endure the torment you inflict upon me, but
I will not permit you to besmirch your name in some wild attempt—"

The surprise on her face stopped him. "Have you not spoken to
the Queen?" she asked.

"You know I did. She sent for me after you told her I would
confront Longchamp and together we devised what should be said. It was then she
bade me take the Cross. She has some doubts of those around Lord Richard, and
she desires news and also a trusty man at his back. I made all safe— at least,
the matter is in God's hands, not Longchamp's—by demanding that she ask to hold
you as ward while I am gone. I have that signed and sealed by Richard and
Longchamp."

"Yes, yes, but after Richard agreed. I know she sent for you
again. Did you not go?"

"I suppose the page did not find me," Simon said
awkwardly.

"Did not find you? Where were you?"

For a moment Simon looked distantly over Alinor's head. Then the
humor of the situation hit him and he began to chuckle. "Hiding in the
stable."

"Hiding!" An enormous horror filled Alinor's voice.
"Hiding from whom?"

The chuckle deepened. "From you."

There was a short silence. Then, "Does love look
elsewhere?" Alinor asked softly.

He caught her wrist so hard she gasped. "Do not be a fool.

I feared you would weep and break my spirit with it and I would
do—God knows what folly to pacify you. Alinor, I beg you again to have some
mercy. I have come to love too old. I dote. I do things I know are wrong—like
standing here holding you," he said bitterly, and dropped his voice still
lower. "There are those who look in hope to carry tales."