Alinor (4 page)

That was not what Salisbury meant, but it was better than having John commit himself to any one man. Several would doubtless offer some bribe to get their names into the letter to Alinor. Doubtless John would wait a day or two to be sure that the bidding had ended. Then the letter must be written and sent. If John should fall into one of his periodic bouts of lethargy, and that was rather likely because he had been showing the signs Salisbury recognized of the onset of such a period, it might be weeks before he moved in the matter.

The fluctuations between periods of great energy and periods of total indolence that John suffered had been a puzzle to Salisbury—and to anyone else who knew the king—for many years. For weeks or months at a time, John would be busy every moment, riding from castle to castle, paying strict attention to the affairs of the kingdom, sitting in justice himself, and prosecuting every duty and pleasure to the fullest. It was not unknown in those periods for the king to come from the queen's bed to that of one of his current mistresses and even to go on to, or summon to his bed, still another. Then the intensity would begin to fade. John would show less interest in the details of governing; more of his time would be spent in sport or pleasure, in drinking bouts carried far on into the night. At last, even an active seeking of pleasure would end. John would fall asleep in his wife's bed after he serviced her, would lie abed late into the morning and spend much of the day in Isabella's company, hardly speaking, simply staring at her beautiful face and form.

In the depths of these periods of lethargy, nothing could rouse the king. Such a period had cost him Normandy. Even when he had been badgered and cajoled into moving toward the fighting, he could not be driven to take an active part in it. Then, for no apparent reason, John would become a little restless; sometimes he would withdraw from the court for a night or a few days. When he reappeared, he was bursting with energy again.

Salisbury had no hope that during his lethargy the king would forget what he had said about Alinor. There had been hate in his purring mention of Lemagne's widow. Salisbury did not understand that, but he knew his brother never forgot a planned revenge on anyone marked by bis hatred. Salisbury would never hurt John, but if he could shield the woman without doing his brother any harm, he was willing to do so for Ian de Vipont's friend.

CHAPTER TWO

Ian's real trouble was not diminished when Alinor sent Joanna to wake him and help him dress instead of coming herself. The child told him gravely that his troop and squires had arrived, but that her mother had sent them to rest and she hoped he would be content with her poor services. Naturally, Ian found no fault with that arrangement. He was touched and amused by the serious way Joanna took her responsibilities. Wisely, he made not the slightest attempt to help her—except for surreptitiously steadying the stool she climbed upon to pull his shirt over his head and lace it up. He raised his arms, lowered them, and turned as she directed with a completely solemn face. She hopped off to fetch his gown, hopped on again—that time Ian had to catch her to keep her from overbalancing with the unwieldy garment in her arms, but he bit bis tongue and did not laugh.

It was a delightfully refreshing interlude. He had caught Joanna in his arms when she had finally fastened his belt, kissed her, squeezed her tight, and told her what a fine woman she was growing to be. If he had not also thought how kind and clever Alinor was to use Joanna to relieve the tension, he could almost have forgotten what lay before him. Fortunately, there was no immediate need for him to face the problem. Adam seized upon him the moment he came to the table, and whenever his mouth was not full of food, Ian was busy describing the siege of Montauban in the most minute detail. Joanna and Alinor were almost as eager listeners as Adam, so that dinner passed easily.

When the meal was over, Adam had to show Ian his new skills in arms. Joanna wished to display her ability to read and write and cipher. Both insisted that he measure their progress in horsemanship. Alinor said tentatively that Ian had had enough of them, but she was obviously well pleased when he denied it and went with them. They came in from their ride just as dusk was falling, laughing and disheveled. Alinor said it was time for bed; they pleaded for a little longer, for Ian to tell them a story he had learned from the bards in the Welsh strongholds when he stayed with his clan brother Llewelyn.

Ian was not Welsh, but he had captured Llewelyn, the grandson of the most important chieftain of North Wales, in a punitive war when he was still Simon's squire. It was Ian who had conducted Llewelyn to a brief, honorable and most luxurious captivity at John's hands, and the two young men had ended by becoming fast friends. In later years, when Llewelyn had inherited his grandfather's power, he had not only given Ian several estates in Wales but had gone through the elaborate ceremony that inducted Ian into his clan and made them "brothers in blood."

Ian spent a fair amount of time in Wales and had grown to love the people and their traditions. He was well pleased to tell the story of the hunting of the great boar Twrch Trwyth. It was full dark when he finished. Torches blazed in the hall, and candles glowed golden in the area before the great hearth that was reserved to Alinor's family and guests.

"And now to bed," Alinor said very definitely.

More pleas, eyes raised adoringly to their champion. Ian glanced at Alinor, almost as pleadingly. She laughed but shook her head. He sighed.

"You must obey your mother. I will be here tomorrow."

"Only tomorrow?" A double shriek that made Ian clap his hands to his ears.

"I do not know."

"Only one day!" "You have barely come!" "It is not enough!" "Please, Ian, please." The chorus was ear-splitting.

"If I can—" Ian said uncertainly.

"Enough!" Alinor ordered very sharply. "You shame me. One does not plead with a man to turn aside from his duty. Begone!"

"Let me kiss them good night."

"As you will. But they do not deserve it."

He embraced both, one in each arm, as usual. They walked slowly away, drooping dejectedly. Ian started to rise. "Sit!" Alinor hissed, fighting the twitching of her lips. Eventually, feet dragging, they disappeared into the stairwell.

"Let me go up," Ian said. "They are so sad."

Alinor laughed softly. "Ian, they play you like a fish. You are too indulgent. You will spoil them."

"Am I? Will I? But they are such good children, so clever, so beautiful."

"Clever and beautiful, perhaps, but good? They are little hellions." She was laughing fondly. "All that sorrow was for your benefit. Doubtless they are already pummeling each other, throwing the pillows about, and creating general havoc."

Ian smiled. "I hope so. I cannot bear to see them sad." He hesitated.

Before he could bring himself to say what was obviously next, Alinor shook her head. "You do not look much rested," she remarked. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yes."

"I am about to commit the sin I just scolded my children for," Alinor sighed. "I wish you had a little time to spare us. I am worried about Adam, about Joanna, too, but that is a lesser problem."

"About Adam? But he is the happiest child, and clever, and strong in arms, too."

Alinor turned her head so that she faced the flames. "He has no man to look up to," she said. "He has had no one but Beorn for more than a year. Simon tried, but he was too sick. Adam is still too young to send for fostering. I cannot send him to William and Lady Isobel. The king is so bitter against William. I suppose I must get a tutor for him, but who, Ian? I cannot take a young man in. Do you know of a married man, perhaps with children, who would do fealty and be loyal to me?"

Surreptitiously, Alinor raised a hand and wiped tears from her cheeks. Ian clenched his fists, and then carefully and deliberately opened his hands. Had Alinor turned to look at him, she would have seen he was unnaturally flushed. It was all she could do, however, to keep from wailing aloud. There were far worse troubles than Adam's burdening her, but it was not fair to worry Ian when it was plain he had problems of bis own and could not help. If Ian could suggest some man to tutor Adam, Alinor felt that even so small a lessening of her burden would be like a foretaste of heaven.

"Set aside Adam's needs for the moment," Ian said. His voice was very harsh.

Alinor bit her lips together. She had no claim on Ian. She had no claim on any man living, except her vassals, and the best of those, the men most closely bound to her in love and loyalty, were dead. Their sons had obeyed Simon gladly, but whether they would accept Alinor's rule docilely she did not know. In any case, it was not Ian's responsibility. She lifted her head defiantly.

"Of course. If you can help, I will be grateful. If not, there is no reason why you should trouble yourself. Let me get you some more wine, and tell me what brings you back to England, and―"

"No reason why I should help! Do you know what Simon was to me?"

"I know you were his squire and he loved you dearly, but I have no claim―"

"Simon made me a man. He never told you? No, I suppose he would not. My father was—I do not know what to say. He killed my mother—beat her to death. He tortured and murdered for amusement. Do you know I have no memory of my childhood—no, I have two. I remember my father killing my old pony with a mace because it was beyond work and because I, he said, was too soft to useless animals. And I remember my mother dying. The rest is blank. What he did on his lands I learned not so many years ago by reading the records of the king's court. It was not that I was too young to remember. I was fourteen when Simon came to bring order to our lands."

"Oh, Ian―" That was why, Alinor thought. That was why Ian could never deny the children anything, never bear to see tears in their eyes, or even sad faces. He had known suffering—too much of it—and he had known gentleness, and he had gone too far in his desire for the latter.

"There is nothing I would not have done for Simon. There was nothing I ever could do for him. He would never permit me to repay that debt."

"Because there was none. To Simon's mind, there was no debt. He loved you for yourself, I know that, but what he did for you was because he felt it was the right thing to do. He did not do it for
you.
Thus, you owe him nothing."

"My father's lands were forfeit, but Simon outfaced the king to secure my mother's lands to me—and they were the greater part."

"Because it was right," Alinor insisted. "Because whatever ill your father did, you were innocent."

Ian made an impatient gesture. "I do not care why Simon did for me. It was done. Whatever I have, whatever I am, is his."

"Simon is dead, Ian. You are free."

"That is a stupid thing to say, Alinor," he said angrily. "Stupid and unkind. Simon lives in you and in his children. There is nothing I will not do for Simon's children and for Simon's wife."

"It is you who are stupid," she flared back, her color mounting and her eyes bright with gold and green lights. "I cannot collect a debt my husband did not acknowledge. You idiot! I would choke now to ask a favor of you."

"
I
am an idiot?" he roared, and suddenly began to laugh. "No. I will not quarrel with you. Not if I die for it. Not if I burst." He paused, took a deep breath, and said in a pleasant, indifferent tone of voice, "Tell me what worries you about Joanna."

"I would not tell you my own name," Alinor hissed.

"Come, Alinor," Ian wheedled, "there is no favor in talking of Joanna. What could I do for her? That is woman's business."

She cast a fulminating glance at him, and he put his hands together prayerfully and said, "Please?" with so spurious and wistful an expression that Alinor began to laugh and put out a hand to him. He rose to take it.

"Forgive me. I spoke with more passion than sense. I never felt a weight of obligation. Simon and I could not have been friends as we were if I did. But you know I love Adam and Joanna."

Alinor's quick glance took in the tension under the pretense of calm. Something was eating Ian. It was no part of a friend to refuse to follow his lead.

"The problem is that we are very rich," she said slowly. "Simon was Sheriff of Sussex for many years, and we are not expensive people. Money poured in and we bought land. We could do it because Richard trusted Simon. Then there was even more money and―"

"For God's sake, Alinor—" Ian protested.

"No, no. I know you do not care for that, but that is where the problem with Joanna lies. I am not and never was a great lady."

He started to protest again, and Alinor held up a hand to quell him.

"I mean that I see to my own maids and keep my own accounts and suchlike. I do not know how to pass the days in idleness, sewing and singing. Yet Joanna's position, by virtue of her dower, will place her in just such an estate. If I keep her here, she will only learn my ways."

"They are best," Ian said definitely.

"I think so, too," Alinor agreed. "When you do your own accounts, no one cheats you. But I remember that when I went to court I almost died of boredom from having nothing to do."

"You will not send Joanna to court!" Ian exclaimed.

"No, of course not, but I think I will send her to Isobel. She has the fine art of doing nothing and enjoying it."

"Not yet."

"Not yet?" Alinor echoed, bristling a little. She thought he was concerned for the shadow that lay upon William, the Earl of Pembroke, and that he thought she had not sufficiently considered her daughter's safety.

"I have a great value for Lady Isobel. She is kind, gentle, and loving; clever, too, but if God had not given her William Marshal—oh, I mean Pembroke—for a husband, she would be nothing."

"There is more in Isobel than you see."

"Perhaps. You know her better than I, but that does not change my feeling. Joanna is very like Simon. She has a seriousness and a deep desire to do right. Young as Joanna is now, Lady Isobel might implant too deeply the conviction that obedience is always right."