Alinor (43 page)

Since Ian's thoughts were conducive neither to ease of mind nor to lightness of spirit, it was just as well that the King's champion was called for soon after the dying knight had been carried from the field. Owain was ready with a lance, muttering grimly that if this one did not hold he would skewer himself on the blunt end. Ian managed to smile and say it was not Owain's fault, but his mind was not on his squire. He found himself ridiculously nervous, just as he had been the first time he had jousted at a tourney. He was not frightened in the sense that he was afraid of being hurt or dying; he was nervous of making a fool of himself, of doing something that would arouse contemptuous laughter.

So fixed was Ian's mind on the various stupidities that had moved
him
to laugh at inexperienced knights, that he very nearly committed the most gauche of all on his first run. He aimed his lance so poorly that it caught in his opponent's and was nearly wrenched from his grip. He did hold on to the weapon and, presumably, the watchers thought he had tried some tricky refinement that had not worked, because there was no laughter. Ian felt his face grow hot beneath his helmet, but his shame was a private matter. Whether embarrassment would have led to further awkwardness, Ian never discovered. On the second run he realized why his lance had not been wrenched away. For sheer incompetence, no other rider he had seen that day matched his present opponent. His guard was awry; his seat in the saddle was terrible; in fact, he should never have been allowed on the field. What idiot had knighted this idiot?

Diverted completely from any fear of incompetence, Ian inserted his lance cleverly between the man's body and his shield arm—so open was his guard—and lifted him from his saddle bodily. Then he dropped him, contemptuously—unhurt and relatively gently—onto the field. To his dumb amazement, this neat, comic byplay was received with only the commoners' roars of laughter. Instead of riding back to his place, he went over to Salisbury. The earl grinned at him and shrugged, motioned to him to bend down, and repeated the name Ian had not caught. That explained it. One of John's passel of bastards. Before Ian could make any remark, the king's champion was being summoned by the heralds again. Salisbury looked at him blankly.

"We will rest you as we can," he promised. "There were fortunately few
gentlemen
who wished to challenge you, unless they had a cause to do so, but there were others―

It was all he or Pembroke could do. Ian lifted a hand in salute and went to take a fresh lance. The encounter with John's foolish, vain son had restored him. His shield arm ached, and he was still tired, but fatigue was not unknown to him. To his surprise, the fatigue did not seem to increase much in the beginning. For that he was sure he had Pembroke to thank. Simon's old friend was a tourney master equaled by no other, and he could judge a jouster most finely. There would be two or three easy passes and then a hard one. Invariably, after that Ian would have a period of recruitment while other knights ran against each other. Robert de Remy was one of the most active, and Ian noticed with pleasure that he was really very good, better than his run against Ian would indicate. Probably he had been nervous; it was not an easy thing to challenge a man one is accustomed to thinking much superior to oneself.

Alinor had been mildly alarmed when Ian's lance broke, but mercifully she did not realize how badly he had been shaken. For some time she was able to watch the jousting continue without any real anxiety. Even when Ian changed his horse, although she knew he was being punished as severely as his mount, she could see no change in his graceful seat and outwardly easy handling of his lance. Worry began to prick her at the second change of mount. It was not only that she began to realize how bruised and achingly tired Ian must be. In addition, she recognized the horse. The gray stallions might all look the same to others, but Alinor had known each of them since the day it was foaled. Small differences in color, in characteristic behavior, identified them to Alinor. Ian had not changed to the third fresh destrier; he had remounted the first animal. That could only mean that he was saving the third stallion for some severe trial he knew to be coming.

A young knight screamed, blood showing as he went down under Ian's lance. Alinor shuddered and drew her furred cloak closer around her. It was horribly clear to her that Ian was too tired to manage his lance properly now. He would never deliberately harm a virtually unknown youngster. She saw
him
throw down the weapon and call something to the attendants, ride over, curbing his horse to speak to the fallen man.

"I am so cold," she whispered.

Immediately there was a furor of activity. A brazier was moved closer; new hot stones were fetched to warm Alinor's feet. A spate of words poured from Lady Ela's lips, mingling "I told you so's" with personal complaint. Alinor's hands were seized by a maid and rubbed briskly. Before quiet was restored, Alinor had her terror under control. If her smiles of thanks to those who attended her were stiff, they were still smiles, while the brisk patting applied to warm her cheeks had also brought color back into them. Moreover, often repeated in the spate of words was the pointed remark that the sun was well down in the western sky, it was overtime for dinner, and Lady Ela was hungry.

She said it so often, and her high whine was so carrying in spite of the noises of the watching crowd and the other people in the loges, that the disaffection began to spread. Some of the courtiers began restlessly to look at the sun. The queen leaned over and whispered to the king. He made some soothing answer, but Isabella, once alerted to a desire of her own, was difficult to quiet or divert. She replied pathetically, her hand going to her abdomen. John cast a glance of venomous dislike at his sister-in-law. If Isabella left, the ladies would go with her, even Alinor, and half his planned pleasure would be stolen. He had waited long and patiently to watch her as her husband fell. Isabella spoke again, her voice rising on a sob so that Alinor caught her final words.

"...silly sport, that you care nothing for the harm my hunger may do your heir. We will not speak of me! I do not matter! And do not tell me that you will have food brought. I ache from sitting so long on this hard bench. I know I do not matter, but―"

John took her hand and patted it. His voice was an indistinguishable soothing purr as he spoke directly into his wife's ear, but the tone was unmistakable. Isabella subsided. Alinor stared unseeingly at the field, her small hope that Isabella would force her husband to declare the jousting at an end seemingly killed. However, it was immediately apparent that the queen had accomplished part of her purpose. John rose and signaled to a herald, who hurried over. Soon the trumpets blew, and word was called across the field that, owing to the lateness of the hour, all challenges "for valor" would be dismissed. Such matters might be as well settled in the melee the next day. Only those who had a real quarrel or a challenge for the king would be allowed to joust.

Through the announcement, Alinor sat quietly, apparently unmoved. She had heard what John ordered while his attention was on the herald, and her doubts and fears were now under control. Her mind squirreled around behind her impassive face. Was it better for Ian? Worse? If many real challenges for the king's champion were unanswered, it would be far worse. Ian would have no rest at all. Alinor swallowed nervously. In the shelter of her heavy cloak, her hands twisted together. Ela's whine in her left ear was a meaningless cacophony, but she was glad to turn her head toward it, glad that her blank, blind eyes would give no satisfaction to the monster who sat on her other side.

To Ian, the announcement meant nothing beyond a few more moments to sit still. He had reached the stage of exhaustion where his mind was not functioning beyond the recognition of his own call to action and the performance of acts so drilled into him over the years that they were mechanical. He saw Salisbury and Pembroke hurry toward each other, the herald who had charge of calling the combatants join them. He did not wonder what they were about. He simply did not think at all. When the sun's glare pierced through the eyeslit of his helmet, he merely turned his head a little to block out the ray. He did not realize that only when the sun was very low in the west, would it strike at that angle.

The trumpets blew again. The herald began to call a challenge aloud. Suddenly, the primitive instinct of self-preservation pierced the fog in Ian's brain. He had recognized the names of the challengers. The challenge itself was incredible! Fulk de Cantelu and Henry of Cornhill were joint challengers, demanding that the king make good his promise to them, of which King John claimed to be absolved by the Lady Alinor's marriage. If Lady Alinor was not free, they claimed an equivalent heiress must be offered in her place. Even Ian heard the roar from the loges. He was awake now, unmercifully aware of the grinding pain in his left knee and left arm, the miserable ache of his whole abused body. He was aware of a dry mouth, of laboring breath. Whatever the king's purpose, those two men intended to kill him if they could. Then no equivalent heiress would be needed. Alinor herself would be the sacrificial lamb.

Ian touched his tired horse with a spur, then had to stab the beast harder to make it move. Just as he started, he caught sight of Owain running across the field toward the herald. He almost called out to him to stop, bothered by some vague notion that his squire would say he was too tired; then he remembered the arrangements he had made when he was still capable of thought. The herald called a pause while the king's champion changed horses. Ian caught just a glimpse of a horseman riding up to Pembroke as he went around the back of the tent where the fresh destrier was tethered. He felt a single flash of amusement. That must have been either Fulk or Henry protesting. Whoever it was would receive short shrift from Pembroke. The sluggish gait and hanging head of the mount he was riding were mute evidence that Ian was not seeking any unnecessary delay.

His amusement evaporated when he needed to dismount so that his saddle could be shifted. Owain and Geoffrey had to help him, and if Owain had not held him upright, he would have fallen when Geoffrey ran to get him a drink. He did not protest that the wine was not watered this time. In fact, from the way it burned going down his gullet, he suspected it had been liberally laced with usquebaugh. Mounting was even more hellish, but once in the saddle, the rearing and bucking of the fresh stallion made him feel better. It was as if some of the horse's fierce energy was transmitted to him. Still, it would be a very near thing if he managed three passes against Fulk and Henry. These were not country squires trying to regain a parcel of land nor fresh young men seeking to establish themselves as jousters.

As soon as Ian came around the tent, the trumpets sounded. That was a piece of luck. It permitted him to start his horse some dozen yards from the head of the list. Another time and place or against another man, Ian might not have seized the advantage. Now, he jabbed his horse hard and fewtered his lance as he moved. There was no need to look for weaknesses; he doubted his opponent had any.

The shock was appalling. Ian heard his saddletree creak as he slammed back against it, but his arm held, his own lance held. His teeth clenched as he felt his body lift, and he forced himself forward against the pressure. Crack! The sound was as sweet as an angel's voice, and the pressure against him released suddenly. Another crack. That was not so sweet. His own lance splintered also. He heard the roar of appreciation from the crowd as the forward leap of his destrier saved him from falling forward. One pass.

Ian brought his horse up short, turned and galloped back to seize a new lance. The wine burned in his blood. He was ready before Henry and deliberately fretted the impatient stallion, so that the moment the other started and he could loosen his rein, it leapt forward almost at a full gallop. The second shock, to his surprise, was not so bad. He was not even moved in his seat and, although he did not unseat his opponent either, he did slat off the lance and have the pleasure of seeing Henry twisted under the impact of his own spear.

The third time it was Henry who started first. Ian was a little surprised, because Owain had been right at the head of the lists with his fresh lance. Even the gray devil Ian was riding could not compensate for the speed Henry's horse had developed. Desperately, Ian swung his legs back a little to brace against the impact better. His knee screamed as he gripped the saddle, but his eyes remained fixed on the point of the bobbing shield that he must hit. Bad! He could feel himself tip. It would be a bad fall! And then the blessed crack of overstrained wood again. One more desperate effort―

It was the roaring of the crowd that told Ian he had unhorsed Cornhill. The effort he had expended had brought brilliant flashes and black spots to obscure his vision. He tightened his rein, felt the speed of the horse slacken. Oddly, in spite of the peculiarity of his vision, he did not feel faint. There was no need for him to clutch at the pommel of his saddle to keep from falling. Three passes.

Only three more. For the first time, a little spark of hope that he might succeed flickered in Ian. It seemed to set the drink he had taken afire in his blood again. Think of it! Instead of seeing him humiliated, John would have to give him the prize. Ian was not sure how many men he had unhorsed today, but he knew it was many more than any other jouster. If only his vision would clear completely. Intermittently now he could see, but his eyes were still not trustworthy. No, he would not be granted time enough. Owain was thrusting another lance into his hands just as the trumpets blew. Ian's jab at his horse was vicious.

He was not surprised when he felt his lance slip along Fulk's shield. He knew he had not been able to keep a steady aim. Instinctively, as the metal screeched among the bosses of Fulk's shield, his legs tightened to hold him steady against the blow he would receive, but the pain in his knee was nearly unbearable. His right knee thrust all the harder, and the horse, war trained, veered sharply toward Fulk's mount, snapping and trying to rear midstride to strike with its hooves. The shock of contact twisted Ian in the saddle, but the abrupt change of angle produced by his mount's action and the response of Fulk's destrier allowed the lance to slip away. Four passes.