Alinor (29 page)

"How have I offended your new lord, Lady Alinor?" he asked angrily.

"Offended him?" Alinor repeated.

"I asked if he would look upon my youngest son and then, if he thought him fit, recommend him for fostering to a good house. Sir Simon did so much for the older boys, and I thought it a reasonable request."

"Ian denied you?" Alinor asked in an amazed voice.

Ian was kind and generous to a fault, and never proud, but it flashed through Alinor's mind that she had seen him only with his equals or superiors in rank and with such lesser folk as the serfs and villeins or men-at-arms. Perhaps he was high in his manner to vassals and gentle-born inferiors. He might consider such a manner necessary to keep them in their place and obedient to his will. Alinor's vassals were not accustomed to such treatment, however. In a social situation, Simon, and Alinor herself, had always addressed her vassals and castellans as equals—as friends. They were good men and understood the difference between a conversation and an order.

"He did not
deny
me," Sir Giles replied flushing slightly. "He listened at first, then looked away and began to scowl, and then he asked if I equated my son with a horse, that he should need to inspect its paces before buying. He said that if I believed the boy was ready, he would believe it also. The words were fair enough, but—but—I will speak the truth of my heart to you, Lady Alinor. You have known me long and will not take what I say amiss. His voice and look were such that, had he not been your lord, I would have struck him in the face."

"Oh, do not do that," Alinor managed to get out, and then could control herself no longer and burst out laughing. Sir Giles stiffened still more, drew in his breath sharply, and began to turn away. Alinor clung to his arm, gasping. "Please, please, do not be angry," she begged. "I am not laughing at you. Indeed, I am not. Ian was easy enough until he looked away, was he not?"

"He looked a little as if his mind was elsewhere, but, yes, he was courteous enough."

"His mind
is
elsewhere," Alinor chortled.

"I am sorry if I intruded my small matter upon some great affair," Sir Giles said even more stiffly.

"His great affair is between his legs," Alinor remarked crudely. "His words were for you and meant as a compliment. His black look was for me. My lord is a little wroth because I insist that we wait for the priest's blessing."

A look of illumination spread slowly across Sir Giles face, and he broke into a broad grin. His eyes ran over Alinor. "Poor man," he said feelingly.

"I am sure he will do his best for your son," Alinor added when she stopped laughing at Sir Giles's sincere sympathy for a tormented man. "What do you desire for the boy?"

"You know I can give him nothing," Sir Giles responded soberly. "A horse and armor, a little money. If he does not have a place where he can get honorable service, he must go the tourney route or sell his sword in whatever war he can find."

"Let me think upon it," Alinor said. "William of Pembroke would have taken him, but that is no safe house for the boy to be in at this time. We will find something," she assured him.

Later in the evening she noticed that Ian had hobbled over and was speaking earnestly with Sir Giles. Alinor was glad he realized he had offended her vassal and was trying to mend matters. Still, she was very relieved when the good weather broke that night and Saturday was a day of pouring rain. They were all pent within the castle, which could and did lead to minor conflicts, especially among the younger men. Ian, however, had plenty of company and, from the bearing of the men who formed in groups around him, plenty to occupy his mind.

After dusk had fallen, a guest they had almost despaired of appeared, riding through the pouring rain. Alinor raised her eyes to heaven for help and prayed— it did not seem appropriate to curse. Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, had at last come, as he had promised, to perform the marriage. With him, however, he brought two more unexpected guests, William, Bishop of London, and Eustace, Bishop of Ely, and Alinor had to find some suitable place to put them.

"We will be the firmest-wed pair in the entire realm," Alinor said to Ian as they parted for the night for the last time. "Three bishops should surely be enough to tie fast the knot. Which one of us," she teased, "did they think would seek to undo it?"

"Not I," Ian replied.

He was standing in the doorway to the small chamber in which he slept. This night he did not argue or plead; Although he ate Alinor with his eyes, he said no more. The silence, the hot eyes, came close to undoing her. Alinor found herself several paces closer to Ian before she realized that she had moved. Still silent, he had stretched out a hand. It trembled just a little. Alinor stared at it. Even his hands were beautiful, she thought. They were slender and long-fingered. Alinor thought of their touch on her body, uttered a small gasp, and fled.

That night, half laughing, half crying, Alinor blamed herself for her amusement at Ian's torments. She did not sleep well. The next day, however, was much easier for everyone. By custom, the ladies remained apart from the men. Bread and cheese and wine were carried up to them, and Father Francis came up to say Mass in an improvised chapel while the bishops officiated below. The morning was given to the examination of one another's dresses, to trying these jewels and those. Alinor's wedding gown, brocaded gold and orange velvet, was laid out and drew exclamations of envy and pleasure.

Midmorning, Ian's squires craved admittance and were bidden to enter. "Bride gift," passed from mouth to mouth, and the women clustered close. The small casket the boys bore was a work of art worth a king's ransom in itself, carved of ivory, bound in gold, and set with gems. It was deep for a jewel box. Alinor opened it carefully, looked inside, and drew breath. Pearls, glowing with a life of their own, marvelously matched for color, lay within. She drew them forth, and drew, and drew, while around her sighs changed to gasps. Someone took the box, and someone else piled the strand into Alinor's hands until both hands were full and the loops fell over. At last they found the clasp, a golden hook that fastened to a short chain that held another marvel—a glowing, sparkling, golden stone as large as a hen's egg, but flatter, carved into the likeness of a phoenix rising from a bed of flames.

That wonder kept them all occupied until it was time to dress in the finery that had earlier been displayed. Alinor could not help wondering, as Lady Llewelyn, Lady Salisbury, and Lady Pembroke wound the pearls around her neck, whether she would be able to support their weight, but they were not heavy. As light to bear, Alinor thought, as a strong man's body in the act of love. She was deeply grateful to Ian, not only for displaying the incredible value he set upon her, but for giving her a jewel that Simon had never favored. She wondered now whether this enormous celebration was only for political purposes. Ian was so very kind. He had known of her first wedding, bereft of all ceremony, bereft of guests and of any celebration at all, darkened by an angry King Richard and a miserable, weeping Queen Berengaria. Clever Ian. Had he planned that this should be as great a contrast as possible? that it should wake no unhappy memories?

If it was his plan, he had succeeded. It was impossible that Alinor should not remember Simon in this moment, but the memory was not sad or bitter. It was of something warm and good, strong and safe, but so very different from what was taking place, from what she felt and expected to feel, that it could wake no unhappiness in her. With brilliant eyes, half-smiling lips and light steps, Alinor went down to forge the first firm link in the chain of the new life she was making.

Everything was different from that first wedding. The happy chatter of the women as they followed her down the stairs, the affectionate kisses Isobel gave her as she placed Alinor's cloak over her shoulders; William's sober-sad yet honest approval as he lifted her to her horse; the road, bright in sunlight, frosty cold now that the rain had ended; the people lining the road, shouting joy for her, cheering anew as Ian and the men followed the train of women. The whole road, from the gates of the palisade around the keep to the town itself, was deep in common folk—first her own men-at-arms and the castle servants, many in tears; then the servants and retainers of her guests; then the serfs from the countryside, who threw wheat from their scanty store, the symbol of peace and plenty; then the townsfolk, the better and the lesser. Here and there a flower was thrown, a winter rose, a costmary, an iris, carefully nurtured at home for a little color and joy during the bitter winter months. In all "the cold, Alinor was suffused with warmth; her people loved her and wished her well.

Nothing was a shadow of the past, not even her own voice or Ian's giving the responses. This time there were no doubts, no fears, no oppression. Alinor heard her responses, and Ian's, wing clear and firm to the outer circle of witnesses in the church porch, heard the happy
"Fiat! Fiat!"
of approval roar back in confirmation.

The women pressed around Alinor to kiss her and wish her well, and the men to kiss and embrace Ian. William of Pembroke said soberly, "God help you; she is a devil unconfined. But if you treat her ill, you must answer to me." At which Ian did not take offense. It would have been hard to find anything that would offend him that day. Besides, he understood. William had stood as father to the bride, Alinor being totally without male relations to protect her interests. He was not implying any distrust of Ian, as the first part of his statement indicated, merely affirming that he took his responsibility seriously. Sir Giles behind Pembroke laughed aloud. "Lady Alinor can take care of. herself; you had done better to have warned Lord Ian to guard himself." Yet Ian had almost to fight for his right to lift Alinor to the saddle for the return to the keep. Part of the reason for the rush to assist him was, of course, concern for his lameness, but a good part was also affection for Alinor. No man wished her day to be spoiled, and all feared that Ian would falter and drop her.

He did not, and would not have done so to ease any pain. They rode back, side by side now, through the streets of the town where oxen, sheep and pigs were already near-finished roasting at bonfires on almost every crossing, and huge tuns of ale and coarse wine were being broached. Of all the businesses, only the bakeshops were open. Bread and cake and pies were to be had for the asking. On Alinor's wedding day, no man, woman or child would go hungry or thirsty or need to beg.

They were cheered for that, of course, but it was for more than that. There were those who ran along beside Alinor's mare to kiss her foot or her stirrup or the hem of her gown. Many she called by name. It was as well, Ian thought, that he meant well by his wife. If he had ever doubted that she could have any man she did not like killed or maimed into a helpless hulk, he doubted it no longer. An enemy to the Lady of Roselynde would be safe nowhere, neither in the town nor in the countryside, nor in the keep, either.

It was plain from the surprise and delight with which Alinor received some of the wondrous dishes presented to her that, although she had planned the meal, she had not planned those. A representation of Roselynde Keep was presented to her, complete in every detail, its walls and towers of pastry, the moat filled with honey, blued with crystallized violets, the sea breaking in a froth of white meringue upon the rocks and beaches below. A representation of the wedding followed, showing the church front, the three bishops with their staffs (two having obviously been crammed in at the last moment), the bride and groom (Alinor smiled; her maids' tongues had been busy for her orange and gold gown and Ian's emerald green were faithfully depicted), and the crowd of onlookers. How many extra days and nights of labor, how much thought and ingenuity her people had willingly added to the already onerous task they faced only to give her pleasure!

The entertainment was as rich as the food. Minstrels had been summoned from everywhere Alinor's messengers could reach. They played, sang, juggled, danced, and performed miracles of tumbling. Trained bears jigged lumberingly to tunes and were fed honeyed tidbits in reward; dogs formed pyramids, danced together, leapt through flaming hoops. And another surprise awaited Alinor. To her chagrin, she had not been able to engage a true troupe of players. However, before the guests became stupid with food or befuddled with wine, Sir John d'Alberin rose from his place, bellowed for silence and a clear floor, and announced that some acts of mimicry would be performed. It was, he said, a token of affection from Alinor's vassals and castellans.

The pieces were hilarious. All, of course, dealt with marriage, and not too kindly, but the ultimate was one about a domineering woman who produced disaster after disaster with unfailing regularity, which her patient husband repaired with equally unfailing ingenuity.

"How do they dare?" Lady Llewelyn hissed across Alinor's convulsed husband to the new-made, maligned wife.

But Alinor was laughing as heartily as anyone else. She knew they dared out of love and trust. Those who wished to shake off her domination were not here. Every man who had come knew he would be expected to renew his vows of fealty publicly before three bishops, the king's half brother, and the greatest soldier England had, as well as before his brother vassals and castellans, who would thereby be sworn to join with his lady to punish him if he violated those vows. The ceremony was set for the following day, when all the guests would still be present. Some would linger for a few days or even a week more, but many had pressing business and would leave as soon as the swearing was over.

Through the whole day and the evening when, because Ian could not dance, he spent his time hobbling from group to group to soothe drunken quarrels, there was not a cloud on his brow. Moment by moment, he saw his fulfillment draw nearer. No doubt that Alinor grieved for Simon darkened Ian's mind, nor had he missed her genuine eagerness for the consummation of their marriage despite her resistance to a premature coupling. It was not until he saw the great ladies approaching Alinor to start the bedding ceremony that apprehension touched him.