Alinor (36 page)

"It is right," Ian sighed, "yet I wish it were not needful. I wish men would stand better by the oaths they swear."

"I, too," Alinor replied tartly. "It would save me a great deal of time, effort, and money." Then her expression softened. Ian was not so worn by the world as Simon had been. He still looked for men to be what they should be instead of what they were. It would be best for him if he thought no more of Sir Peter and his doings, but what would divert him? She could not send him out to hunt.

"Ian," Alinor said, "we overlooked a matter of some importance yesterday. We must send word of our marriage to the king. Or do you think we should just wait until he hears of it?"

"No, we must send word at once. And I did
not
overlook it. Until I had time to speak to you about your game with the messenger, I was not certain of just what I would need to do."

"Will you write to him? Or should I write, since the message came to me?"

"Both of us, I think."

Alinor giggled. "Oh, good. I have already begun a letter. I am glad my labor need not be wasted."

Ian hid his face in his hands and groaned. Alinor laughed aloud, saying she would fetch her letter while he went to piss. She returned to find Ian sitting in a chair with a long-suffering expression on his face.

"Listen," she urged. "If there is anything you do not like, I will change it. I thought to break the matter to him gently, so I began with 'From Alinor, Lady of Roselynde.' I can still say that, it does not matter that I am now Alinor de Vipont instead of Alinor Lemagne. Right?"

That was certainly a good notion. Ian nodded.

"Then I said, 'Dear my dread lord and king, I am sorry for the long delay in replying to your kind letter, but it is owing to no negligence upon my part nor upon the part of your messenger. As you foresaw and wrote to me about, trouble has come upon me because of the long sickness of my late lord and husband. My lands have become infested with bands of outlaws who prey upon my people and upon the merchants from the town. These fiends, lost to all sense of order and reverence, did take your messenger prisoner and hold him to ransom. As soon as this word came to me, I paid to gain his freedom, but by that time it was too late for me to comply with your most considerate and thoughtful offer.'"

"Really, Alinor," Ian protested, almost horrified, although he was laughing. "Do you think he will swallow that?"

"If you think not, it will be altered to your taste, but why not? Is any flattery too gross for this king's taste? As to the words 'considerate and thoughtful'—the man he offered me the first time was a decent man. I have not been to court since John has been king. Why should I know that those he mentions this time are not fit to be eaten by worms?"

"Hmmm." Ian was no longer laughing or horrified. There was considerable sense in what Alinor said. "Would I not have told you that they were monsters?"

"Why should you? Why should anyone, now that I am safe from them? What purpose would it accomplish other than to make me hate the king? Unless you were about to turn rebel, and Salisbury's presence here must convince even John that you do not have any such intention, your desire must be to make me think kindly of him. This letter, I hope, will show how well you have succeeded."

"Could I have succeeded, considering what passed between you and the king?"

"On my part, why not? He did me no harm and, for all his threats, he did Simon no harm. Why should I not believe he has forgiven my transgression? And, you know, Ian," Alinor laughed, "it is a rare woman who hates a man for calling her beautiful and making advances. Resistance does not betoken hatred."

"Yet you hate the king."

"Certainly not for attempting to lie with me. Besides, I am not sure hate is the right word. I fear King John— not so much for myself, but—but he would eat the world if he could, and yet he hates it and everyone in it, I think."

"He is not so bad as that. He loves one, at least. Go on with your letter."

Since it was impossible for Alinor to define her feelings about the king, she began to read again. " 'Not knowing, my lord, that in the midst of your victories and the heavy business that must fall upon you, you would still find time to think of my insignificant troubles, I had accepted an offer of marriage from one of your most loyal servants. Ian, Lord de Vipont, and I were betrothed on the ides of October and married on the first day of December by Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, with William, Bishop of London, and Eustace, Bishop of Ely, assisting. I hope you will pardon this unknowing disobedience and I hope you will believe that I intended no disrespect. Indeed, knowing Lord Ian to be high in your favor, my lord, I thought this union would be pleasing to you. Allow me, my lord, to sue humbly for your approval of my good intentions and to subscribe myself your faithful, loyal servant and vassal, Alinor.' And so on and so on. There, what think you?"

"I do not think I like that 'sue humbly,' " Ian bristled. "We did no wrong. I even paid for leave to marry who I would."

"You shall change it to what you like," Alinor soothed, "but for a woman such words come easier than to a man. I am willing to 'sue humbly' if it will buy me a little peace."

Ian scowled as he got out of the chair, and Alinor began to help him dress. She was right, and yet he found it offensive that she should humble herself before such a man as John. He stalked off finally to see what guests were up early while Alinor was dressed. She watched him. He still limped, but he was walking more easily, and there was no doubt that no permanent damage had been done to his knee. Alinor picked up the parchment from the small table upon which she had laid it while she dressed her husband. If only she could be even a little as hopeful that no permanent damage would be done to his life by this marriage, she would be much lighter of heart.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The habit of Alinor's servants was to carry out their mistress's orders as quickly as was humanly possible. Although she was not so unreasonable as to punish a man for bad weather, neither was it wise for a messenger of hers to sit down beside a river and wait for a flood to subside. Thus the trusty man that carried her letters and Ian's found King John at La Rochelle, where he was making preparations to return to England. It was a great relief to the messenger not to have to pursue the king, for John, when he was not sunk into lethargy, moved from place to place almost as swiftly as his mother had done. Moreover, the messenger's task was essentially over. Fortunately for him, in the city of La Rochelle full court protocol obtained, and this protocol forbade the direct approach of so insignificant a servant to the king, except in a dire emergency. Alinor's man had only to see the court official Ian had designated and deliver the letters to him.

Ian had taken a good deal of pleasure in deciding to whom to deliver the letters. There were so many of the king's favorites he disliked, and John was notoriously unrestrained in his behavior toward the bearer of ill tidings. The first idea had been to let Fulk or Henry carry his own rejection, but Ian reluctantly had to abandon that notion. Neither of those gentlemen was above lifting the seals with a hot knife, murdering the messenger and destroying the letters, so that Alinor's seeming refusal to reply to the king's orders would make the marriage seem an act of defiance. Not that most of the other gentlemen of the court were
above
lifting a seal,

Ian told Alinor wryly. It was just that no other would think the danger of discovery worthwhile when the letter did not concern him.

Having given the matter some careful thought, Ian grinned wickedly and bid Alinor's man to deliver his burden to Hugh of Neville.

"From whom?" that gentleman asked disdainfully, not reaching a hand for the proffered packet but signing a servant to take it.

"From Alinor, Lady of Roselynde," the man-at-arms repeated, bowing low and humbly, "and from Ian, Lord de Vipont."

His accent was uncouth; his clothes were mud-splashed, salt rimed, and sweat stained; he smelled to high heaven. He knew he was offending the great lord, but his instructions had been clear, and he was obeying them.

Neville frowned as he turned the packet over in his hands and looked at the seal. He was not the man to do even a friend a favor if it would not benefit him, and he certainly had no intention of accepting for delivery to the king anything that would upset John's temper. It was not that John was ill-humored at this time. In fact, he was particularly cheerful, as if he anticipated some pleasant event, and, of course, the queen was breeding, at long last. Neville, however, knew the king well enough not to depend on that. Once John roused into his active stage, his mood could not be trusted from one moment to the next.

Ian de Vipont was known to Neville. He did not like the man, but the king did not seem to dislike him. The seal, however, was even less meaningful than the lady's name. At least he remembered there had been some talk of a Lady Alinor being recently widowed. Neville's face cleared. Doubtless the lady wished to marry again. That would mean a fat fine if the choice was her own or a prize to be given away to a loyal henchman. Fulk? Hugh Neville looked down at the packet with an instant of doubt. Poor woman. Perhaps— No. It was no affair of his. All that mattered to him was that the king would be pleased. His eyes flicked over the messenger. Even if there was a reply, there was no need to use a dirty worm like that. The king's instructions must be carried by a more worthy instrument.

"There will be no reply," Neville said curtly. "Begone."

Not given to watching the reactions of his inferiors, Neville missed the expression of relief on the messenger's face. His lady had told him not to wait for a reply, but to return to Roselynde for further orders after delivering the packet. He had been troubled by that order. Usually he was told to do what the recipient of the message told him. He had wondered what would become of him if the lord who took the letters bid him stay? Caught between the fire of the lord's wrath if he disobeyed him and the lady's wrath if he disobeyed her, he would have been consumed either way. Now he was free. He bowed again, and backed gratefully out of the chamber. His horse was waiting, and there was a ship in the harbor due to sail for England on the evening tide. He would be on it.

Neville waved a hand as if the motion could dispel the scent of the messenger. Stupid woman, he thought, she deserves Fulk. Why did she not tell the man to clean himself before presenting himself to his betters? The air was redolent of the creature's stench. He rose unhurriedly. Actually, this was as good a time as any to deliver the messages to the king. The odor would be gone by the time he returned.

Entrance to the king's chambers was gained readily, and Neville was well-satisfied at the way John's eyes lit when he named Lady Alinor. John had been somewhat surprised when he received no reply to his letter. He had half expected a long screed pleading for a reversal of his decision or for delay on the grounds of the recentness of her widowhood. He really did not care what she did, however. Silence or an open defiance would have been equally satisfactory. Either would be a perfect excuse to use the force he was bringing back from France to break open Roselynde. He could have her declared a rebel and have her entire estate, instead of needing to divide it with others. John shrugged as he broke the seal. The delay probably meant that she had been seeking information about the two he had proposed as husband to her.

John's first real doubt came when he became aware of the weight of the packet. This was no simple letter. Was the bitch cleverer than he thought? Was this some kind of legal argument based on custom and precedent that she hoped would make her immune from his right to choose a husband for her? The first lines of the top scroll, which bore the lady's name, caught his eye and gave him a momentary taste of victory. Stupid slut, did she think that if she pretended to reverence him and spoke of her troubles, he would forget what had passed between them? The fleeting satisfaction made the shock and fury engendered by Alinor's announcement of her marriage so much the more violent.

"Bitch!" John shrieked, throwing the packet onto the table so that its contents spilled out. "Whore! Foul, stinking, cod-swallowing whore! Shit-eating sow!"

The blazing eyes roamed around the room, but living prey was gone. The servants had been sent to wait outside when Neville asked for audience. Neville himself had gasped and slid out of the doorway at the first darkening of the king's countenance. If the doubt he read on the king's brow cleared, he would be just outside, waiting to re-enter. The shriek of rage, however, told him his best safety lay in retreat. As he hurried back to his quarters, a doubt flickered through his own mind. If the messenger had been kempt and well-dressed, he might have been bidden to stay or to carry the packet to the king himself. Had the stinking, ill-garbed creature been a trap? Where was he now? Neville sent servants scurrying through the castle to inquire regarding the whereabouts of Lady Alinor's messenger. Whether they found him or not was not important. It was the excuse he needed for having left the king's presence.

Temporarily bereft of something that would scream when violence was done to it, John looked for something that would crush, break. The table before him was clear of all such objects. All that lay on it at the moment were the scattered parchments. He snatched up Alinor's letter again, but he did not cast it into the fire. His rage and frustration were such that he froze with the document in his hand, leaning forward against the table. The pressure across his loins vividly recalled all the pain and shame inflicted upon him by the author of the letter he held in his hand.

The memory did not spark another bout of rage. It was so vivid that John reacted as if the paroxysm he had suffered 14 years past had just taken place. His chest heaved and his legs felt oddly shaky. He sank back into the chair he had risen from, staring blindly and fixedly at the parchment he held.

"Mealymouthed bitch," he muttered as he reread the letter carefully. Nonetheless, the submissive tone calmed him further, and he began to think. "Three bishops," he said next. "Much good that may do you. As soon as John Gray is consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury, they can be brought to heel."