Alinor (20 page)

Having reread the letter twice, Alinor drew breath sharply through her teeth. Did Lord de Vipont think he was dealing with a child having a tantrum? Glancingly, her mind gave credit to the fact that Ian was not mean or petty. He had signed the contract and taken every precaution to ensure its validity. In addition, he had taken no nasty little revenge, such as leaving her in doubt of what he had done or what he intended. On the other hand, he seemed to feel that withdrawing the company of his exquisite person would bring her to heel. Did he really think she would beg pardon and plead with him to return? Did he think she could not manage to prepare for the wedding without him? Dear Ian had much to learn about his lady.

The date was settled for the first day of December, and Alinor knew the names of the men Ian wished to invite. There was nothing else she needed him for until it was necessary for him to take the vows in person and bed her. Alinor stared across the hall to the fire on the far side. A very faint smile lifted her lips and made her expression perfectly enchanting. She was remembering the avidity on Ian's face when he looked down at her some days ago.

"Lord de Vipont indeed," she whispered softy. "Mayhap you think you love another woman, but I know desire in the eyes of a man when I see it." A brow quirked upward, and the smile became more mischievous. "Desire is a fine rope with which to bind a man and lead him into new pastures."

Alinor's eyes began to sparkle as her spirit lifted and danced. She sprang to her feet with a lightness she had not felt for over a year. This was a problem she was not afraid to face. She had been a fool not to think of this solution right from the beginning. For Ian it would be far better to love his wife than to eat up his soul with hopeless longing. Alinor knew she had been a good wife to Simon; they had been happy together. Once she had enslaved Ian, she would be a good wife to him also, and he would be happy, too. It was unfortunate, Alinor thought, as she tripped lightly up the stairs, that Ian had never spoken to her about the woman he loved. It would have made her task much easier if she knew her rival.

Thinking back over the years, Alinor realized that Ian had never spoken to her about women at all, except in such a general way as to mention who was at court. There had been hints of Ian's conquests, but those had all come from Simon, who would laugh or raise a brow in a significant way when a certain name was mentioned. But it was never the same name two visits in succession. Alinor would swear none of those women was more than a vent to let out the heat of a young man's blood. It was also to Ian's credit that he was no proud seducer. He had seemed more embarrassed than pleased at Simon's knowing looks.

Well, if she did not know, she did not, Alinor thought, dismissing the problem for more practical ones. Although she had spent considerable time with Joanna choosing cloth and adornment for the child's dresses, she had scarcely given a thought to her own. Now she summoned her maids and began a turning out of chests in good earnest. For Simon she had always kept the dress characteristic of a young maiden, because that was what he liked. For Ian, she needed a new persona. No more leaf-green and white and gold. Green and gold, yes, those colors suited her, but in richer tints, more brilliant dyes. And now there were a range of other colors.

Alinor fingered a length of rich, tawny, orange velvet and a cloth-of-gold veil, thin as a whisper and glittering with gold thread. The veil had lain there since she returned from the Holy Land so many years ago. She lifted it to her cheek and went to look—really look—at herself in the polished silver sheet used to reflect images. Even with the darkening and graying effect of the imperfect mirror, the image was flattering. Now for the tunic. More chests were dragged out and opened. Somewhere, once, there had been—ah!—a piece of heavy, heavy, dark-gold silk brocaded in gold until the fabric was stiff. She unfolded the cloth and sighed. It was large enough. Alinor laid the orange on the gold, heard one of her maids gasp.

"For an undertunic, madam?" another protested breathlessly.

"Yes," Alinor said slowly, "yes, indeed. I do not need to blazon my wealth abroad. I can well afford outward modesty."

That was one. There must be at least three more. Her eyes fell upon another velvet, a red so dark it was near to brown, and with that a brilliant crimson wool as soft as a kitten. That would need embroidery to embellish it. Alinor could see the pattern in her mind's eye, not too fine in the detail, so that the maids could do the work. Open leaves winding up the arm and around the throat and matching bands seeming to start from the waist of the cotte and branching out over the skirt. A headdress? The gold would have to do; there was no other color that would suit.

Other choices were swiftly made. The trestle upon which Alinor cut cloth was set up, and she began to work on the fabrics chosen. One gown and one tunic were readied for sewing before the light began to fail. Alinor was a little irritated, but in too good a humor to let such a trifle change her mood. The women could sew by candlelight, and she would cut the others the next day. Meantime, she trotted down to the great hall again and sought out Father Francis. Together they devised the different wordings needed for the invitations to friends, to great nobles, and to vassals and castellans, who were summoned rather than invited. Originally, Alinor had planned to write the messages herself with Father Francis' assistance, but now she expected to be too busy. She instructed the priest to take the list of names and the forms to a small abbey some ten miles to the east and beg the abbot to allow the lay brothers, who served as scribes, to do the copying. Naturally Alinor would make a suitable offering to the abbey church as a thanksgiving for the help. Alinor spent the evening hours writing to William and Isobel. They were friends of the heart and deserved more than an unexplained invitation to a wedding. Not that there was much need for explanation. Even if William did not know of Alinor's contretemps with the king—and it was likely that he did, because Simon usually confided everything to William—he and Isobel would be well aware of the hard facts of life.

Well content with her day, Alinor allowed her maids to undress her and brush her shining hair while her mind ranged over the activities she planned for the next day. She was only slightly tired, physically tired with excitement and work rather than heavy with the burden on her spirit, just tired enough to be aware of the pleasure of stretching in her luxurious bed. "Ian, Lord de Vipont," she murmured and giggled softly. The bed had brought its inevitable association. "You will yet sign your letters to me in a far different fashion, or I am not the woman I think I am."

In fact, the signature that rankled Alinor had cost Ian considerable thought. If Alinor had bothered to look, she would have seen that the area had been scratched out, smoothed over, and rewritten. Ian had tried "your lord and husband" first. That was what he had scratched out when he realized that it might well be taken as indicating that he was assuming authority over her. Of course, Ian fully intended to assume authority over Alinor, but in view of her passionate statement of independence, he had no desire to be crude or obvious about it. The next idea was "your loving husband." He had thought that over for some time, trying to convince himself that Alinor would accept it as a formal ending without taking fright. It was too dangerous, he decided finally. The simplest was just to write "Ian," there being little likelihood that Alinor could be mistaken as to who was writing to her on such a subject. By that time, however, Ian had so sensitized himself to reading obscure meanings into his signature that he decided the single name might suggest he was contemptuous. Thus, Ian, Lord de Vipont had come upon the page.

The sentences which Alinor had thought to imply conceit had cost poor Ian more pain than the signature. Once the contract was signed, his impulse had been to clean out the reavers and rush back to Roselynde to admire the prize he had won. When he considered the violence of their last interview, however, and his growing inability to maintain a decent reserve to conceal his passion, he was forced to admit that such extended and intimate proximity would be most unwise. If they were apart, they could not quarrel. Once the wedding guests began to arrive, it would be safe to return. Not only was Alinor far too well bred to make public scenes, but there would be little opportunity for privacy or conflict.

In the windowless, dark, dank, immensity of the floor below the great hall, Alinor was coming to the conclusion that there would not be room enough to stand upright, let alone lie down to sleep. Torches now lit the area and fires blazed in the hearth at each end. The stores of weapons and food had been removed, the stone floor spread thickly with rushes. Perhaps, packed together like fish, four or five hundred servants would be able to find places to lie down. Another hundred servants of the better sort would sleep on the floor above with their masters. Alinor shrugged, then shivered as the cold struck through her woolen gown and tunic. She gave instructions that the fires were to be kept going night and day. Eventually the walls would absorb some heat, and the atmosphere would become more livable.

That was fine for those who would be there, but what about the four or five hundred others? The horses would have to be moved outside the keep with the other animals. The stables were the best of the outer buildings. Properly swept, there would be room for another few hundred. Then Alinor uttered an exclamation of annoyance. The weather had been remarkably fine, but it certainly could not be trusted at this time of year. She did not want her horses exposed continually if there were to be much rain, snow, or cold. Shelters would have to be constructed not only for her animals but for the mounts of her guests. And that, she realized with a sigh of relief, would solve her other problem also. The meaner servants—the grooms, horseboys, carters, and the like—could sleep with the horses. It was good enough for them and would rid the keep of their noise and smell.

Alinor climbed the stairs to the great hall and sent a maid to fetch her furred cloak, while she warmed herself for a few minutes at the fire. When the maid returned, she went down the stairs again and out to inspect the stables, with a view to human habitation. Obviously it would not be safe to have fires here. Alinor told one of the gaggle of menservants who trailed behind her to go search out all the charcoal braziers in the keep. Of course, it was warm enough in the stable now, but once the great equine bodies were gone it would be a different story.

Since she was there, Alinor went to look at one of the gray brood mares whose colt would be due in a few months. Two stalls away, an old mare whinnied. Alinor stopped and stepped into the stall to stroke the soft muzzle that was more silver now than golden. She looked sadly at the sunken temples, the too-prominent hip bones and ribs. The mare nuzzled her breast and danced a little stiffly.

"Poor Honey," Alinor crooned, "poor Honey." Then suddenly she smiled. "Saddle her up," she said to a groom.

"Lady," one of the menservants pleaded, "lady—" He dared say no more. No one would disobey the lady, but all knew of her near abduction.

"I am not going out," Alinor assured her anxious servants. "Poor Honey could not carry me far. I will only pleasure her by riding within the palisade to decide where to place the horses."

A rough palisade of logs had been built outside the walls of the keep to confine the herds of animals that would be needed to feed the guests that would overflow the capacity of the outer bailey. Most of these animals had been driven in already and were being fattened with fodder that also came from outlying demesne farms in long trains of creaking wains. Alinor rode to and fro within the confines of the log wall, checking them and looking out the best ground. Suddenly, from the wall of the keep behind her, a shout of alarm came from a lookout. Alinor cursed, kicked Honey into a shambling canter, and was across the drawbridge before the servants could wrestle the gates of the palisade closed.

By then, the precaution was seen to be unnecessary. The troop was small, and, more to the point, Beorn's voice was calling for admittance. That meant news from Ian. Alinor had had no word since she had sent him those invitations and summonses meant for dispatching to his Welsh and northern friends and vassals. It would have been ridiculous to send her men on long journeys on which doubtless they would lose their way more than once when his men already knew both the roads and the destinations. She had written a polite little note explaining this, signed "Alinor," and had received a polite note in return, agreeing that what she had done was best, signed "Ian."

Alinor had suffered a brief flash of temper over that note, which had not offered one word of information about Ian's activities, but the anger had not dampened her spirits at all. It had merely hardened her resolve. Ian had known she would be angry, and why. After all, the lands were hers, and she had a right to know what was happening. The trouble was, nothing was happening. Ian had racked his brains for something to say, but if he did not write plain lies, he had nothing else. Could he tell Alinor he was idling the days away, most unpleasantly and in the greatest discomfort, just to avoid returning to Roselynde? There had been one or two minor clashes with the outlaws the first week. After that, they had not come again. Ian did not really expect them to become desperate and come to him. It was far safer for them to raid other lands that were not so well guarded. No doubt they hoped the Roselynde forces would tire of watching and would come to the conclusion they had left for good.

The latter had been a possibility. Aside from the Roselynde farms, there was little to be had in the area. The Forest of Bere was large and, of course, totally uncultivated. There were beasts, but they were wary, and disenfranchised villeins were inexperienced huntsmen. Most men were fearful of raiding Church lands, and Peter of Winchester, who ruled Bishop's Waltham, was no frail reed when it came to protecting his own. Ian's Welshmen watched, but the outlaws did not make preparations to move. They were attacking Rowland's property. The pickings were slim; Rowland was not as good a landlord as Alinor, but it would be longer than Ian was prepared to wait before the reavers starved.