Alinor (45 page)

A groan from the bed brought Alinor's self-recrimination to an abrupt end. Idiot that she was to sit lamenting what had not yet happened! She rose from the hearth and hurried to the antechamber where she gave orders that sand was to be obtained at once, and jars of cold water. The sand was to be heated, then poured into soft sacks, and cloths must be found for soaking in the water. While these preparations were being made, Alinor went softly to the bed and opened the curtains. So deeply was Ian sleeping that his eyelids did not even flicker when the light touched his face. Alinor fetched her chest of medicinals and softly, carefully, she began to apply unguents to Ian's bruises. Even then he did not stir, although from time to time he groaned.

It was a night that would return to Alinor in nightmares for many years, but toward morning her total despair began to lift. Not only did Ian seem to be sleeping more lightly and naturally, but the hours of application of hot and cold to his bruised body appeared to be having an effect. He was shifting himself more easily, and his groans had faded into silence or an occasional grunt of discomfort when he turned onto a tender spot. Two or three hours before dawn he even roused and looked blearily at Alinor.

"What are you doing?" he muttered querulously.

"Treating your bruises, so that you will not be stiff as a plank of wood tomorrow," Alinor snapped.

He passed his tongue across his lips, and Alinor held out an imperious hand. A maid hurried to put a cup of watered wine into it. Alinor lifted Ian's head and put the cup to his lips. He drank thirstily, then reopened his eyes, squinting against the light.

"Come to bed," he complained. "It is very late. Leave the maids to tend to me. I cannot sleep when you are not beside me."

Alinor repressed a hysterical giggle. What had he been doing until now? On consideration, however, it seemed like a good idea. She had slept very little the night before and not at all this night. She knew she would have to sit beside the king again during the melee. Whatever happened, she did not wish to give him the satisfaction of seeing her distress. Also, if the worst happened, she would need a clear mind to plan what to do. A few hours of sleep would be a great help.

In the end, Alinor had more sleep than she expected or intended. At last, however, a half-recognized sound disturbed her, and she woke with a start to an empty bed. Terror seized her. "Ian!" she shrieked, leaping out into the room.

"Alinor!" Ian exclaimed.

And William of Salisbury, who had just closed the door behind him—that being the sound that had wakened Alinor—politely turned his back.

"I beg your pardon," Alinor gasped, retreating hastily to the shelter of the bedcurtains, where she drew on her bedrobe.

"You need not," Salisbury replied with a grin. "So lovely a sight can never offend."

"Lovely," Alinor laughed, quickly gathering up her hair and plaiting it. "All unkempt as I am, I must look like a witch."

"Madam, if witches looked like that, I could be easily reconciled to the unholy brood."

"Stop trying to seduce my wife right in front of my face," Ian said with amusement. "Draw up a chair and join me. I am sorry to tell you to serve yourself, but my knee will not serve me."

Despite the complaint, Alinor's spirits lifted as she looked at her husband. The gray pallor of exhaustion was gone, his eyes were bright, but normally so, and, best of all, he had already consumed what appeared to be a massive meal and seemed to have every intention of eating still more. True, his movements were stiff and, Alinor guessed, painful, although his expression gave no evidence of it. Nonetheless, Alinor was reasonably sure that once his muscles were warmed by activity, they would serve him faithfully. Salisbury's appearance, however, was far less satisfactory. Now that his startled pleasure at Alinor's nude appearance had passed, he looked decidedly uneasy.

"You are early astir," he said to Ian.

"Early?" Ian was surprised. He glanced toward the window, which was bright with daylight. "It must be well after the prime. I must be on the field to place my men before terce."

"You are sore overworn. Surely you will yield your place to another man. There are several who have offered to stand in your shoes this day."

Ian looked even more surprised and a little offended. "I had some heavy work yesterday, but what is that? A night's sleep has restored me—you can see that."

"But you said your knee was injured. That―"

"My knee will not serve well for walking, but that is no reason why I cannot sit a horse. For jousting, perhaps, such a thing is a disadvantage, but there will be no play with lances this day," Ian said sharply.

Salisbury glanced at Alinor, who had just filled a goblet with wine and handed it to him. Her face was set like stone. "Do you wish me to retire, my lord?" she asked stiffly. "I will, if it will make you more easy, but I assure you that you can tell me no more about my husband's danger than I already know."

Uncomfortably, Salisbury stared down into the contents of his cup, turning and turning it in his hands. Ian glanced sidelong at Alinor, but said nothing to contradict her. He went stolidly on with his meal, leaving the next move to Salisbury.

"Why did you do it?" the earl asked at last, the words wrenching themselves unwillingly out of his throat. "He did not deserve it. Oh, perhaps he did encourage jousters to go against you. He was angry that you had stolen so great a marriage prize and would have taken pleasure in seeing you overthrown, but―"

"Let us pretend that you did not ask that question," Ian said softly. "Let us say that you did me the courtesy to come and see if I was well enough to fight, so that you could ask the king to appoint another leader if needful. You have seen that I am quite well. Tell me something more important. Does Oxford hold to his intention about Ireland?"

"Ian," Salisbury said painfully, "please answer me."

"What do you want me to say?" Ian asked furiously.

"It must be plain, my Lord Salisbury, that my husband felt an urgent need to enlist support for me," Alinor put in smoothly. She liked Salisbury, and she was sorry for him, torn as he was between his love for his brother and his fear for Ian. He had tried to save Ian; he had offered him an easy way out. It had given Alinor no flicker of hope; she had known Ian's answer before the suggestion was made. "The king has a longstanding grudge against me, and perhaps I deserve it. Many years ago, he offered me a compliment that I took amiss. I am sorry to admit that I have a very hot temper. I lost control of it, and I struck him with an embroidery frame. The Angevin memory is very long. Ian fears for me."

Salisbury did not lift his head. He raised the wine to his lips and set it down again untasted, as if he could not swallow. "You are very kind to take the blame, Lady Alinor," he muttered. "I understand that Ian wished to protect you. What I do not understand is why he felt the need to be so urgent. It does happen, of course, but it is not common for men to die on the tourney field."

Ian slammed his eating knife down on the table. "The king is your brother and my liege lord," he snarled. "It is scarce fitting for me to answer you. Go ask of his enemies."

"I know what his enemies will say," Salisbury whispered. "I want to know the truth."

"I do not
know
the truth, William," Ian said more gently, "and I do not wish to know it unless it be to the king's credit I wish only to protect myself and my wife. I could not do other and, look you, if I live through the day—which I expect, for I have taken this and that precaution—no more harm will be done than that men will think I have a suspicious mind."

"No more harm?" Salisbury repeated blankly. "Do you think John will love you after this?"

To that Ian made no reply. He picked up his knife again, looked at the roast haunch, and then laid the knife aside as if his appetite was gone.

"I see," Salisbury said. "If you believe what you do, how can you be faithful?"

"The same way you love. There is the small matter of
my
honor also. I have given my oath, and I will stand by it as Pembroke stands by his," Ian said coldly.

"I beg your pardon!" Salisbury exclaimed, rising so suddenly that the chair crashed backward and the goblet he had been holding tipped, pouring wine over the table.

"My lord," Alinor cried, hurrying over to him and laying a hand on his arm. "Ian did not mean that"

"Mean what?" Ian said, looking amazedly from the dripping wine to Salisbury's white face. "William, for God's sake, what did I say?"

"It—it sounded as if you implied that Lord Salisbury was a part of—" Alinor's voice faltered away.

"I did not mean that nor, indeed, any offense to you, William. I meant that love and honor do not always have a perfect recompense or, for that matter, a worthy object. Many men love unworthy women and cling to that love even when they know they have been betrayed. Many men make idiotic, harmful vows and fulfill them to their own and other's harm—look at King Richard and that stupid Crusade. Sit down, William."

Salisbury righted the chair. Alinor picked up the goblet and refilled it, more to have something to do than because she expected Salisbury to drink. When she thought over the words that had produced so violent a reaction, she realized that only Salisbury's feeling of guilt could have misinterpreted them. Added to what Salisbury had said when he first came in—his suggestion of excuses for Ian to withdraw from fighting in the melee—his behavior was near proof of guilty knowledge. It was natural that he should be very sore on the point of honor. To know what he knew and not to act or speak out was not honorable. Yet Alinor could feel no contempt. It was bad enough for men like Ian and Pembroke to serve faithfully such a master. What hell it must be for Salisbury, who not only served but loved him.

"Of course," Ian continued, with a faint smile, "I do not think I am so bad as Richard. I have a good practical reason for what I do, in addition to my sworn oath. I said to Alinor some time since that it was necessary to put aside personal liking and sometimes even personal good for the good of the realm at large. Whatever the king feels toward me, he loves this land. It is his native place, the seat of his affections. I have said also, more than once, that much ill for which the king is blamed is no fault of his, and he has done much good—for example, reforming the courts of law from the corruption of Richard's reign."

Some color had returned to Salisbury's face. He lifted the cup of wine, and drank. His expression was eager, although a shadow still dwelt in his eyes. "Yes, that is true," he agreed urgently, almost pleadingly.

"You need not feel that I will fail in my faith," Ian said firmly. "Not for liking nor disliking nor insult. I may well withdraw from the court—it may be necessary for me to do so, as you point out what I have done could not be pleasing to the king—but in any time of need I will stand firm."

A sigh that trickled out of Salisbury told the other half of the tale. He had come to warn Ian, but he had also come to bind Ian tighter and tighter to the man who plotted his death. Standing quiet behind her husband's chair, Alinor warred against showing her flash of resentment, but it soon faded. Salisbury's effort was superfluous. Ian had given her his reasons long ago. He would be faithful to King John despite any cause to rebel, because there was no one else.

Salisbury finished his wine and stood up. "God bless you," he said softly and then, with bitter fervor, "God keep you."

When she had seen their guest out, Alinor returned. Ian had not moved. He was staring at the dark stain the wine had made on the table. Alinor began to dress without summoning her maids. Ian turned his head to look greedily at the firm, white body. He did not want to die. There was a great lust in
him
to live, to sup more fully of the pleasure and the treasure he had waited for for so long. Shift and tunic obscured what he never seemed to have enough of, even the moment after he had spilled his seed into her. He lifted his eyes to his wife's face.

"Would you consider remaining here, or even setting out for Iford?" Ian asked slowly.

Fear clutched at Alinor's throat so that the one word she forced out came in a gasp "No." Ian was looking again at the wine stain. "Do not ask it of me," she begged when she had regained mastery of her voice. "Do not condemn me to wait and pray in this silent house."

"No, I will not." Ian looked up again, smiling a little. "I should have known you would rather see the blood spill."

"Not yours."

He smiled more broadly. "Doubtless a little will be let, but not, I believe, so much as the king hopes." Then he frowned. "What I do not understand is how Salisbury came to hear of this. Men do not tell him such tales of the king—and he knew. He all but begged me to refuse to fight."

Memory stirred in Alinor, memory of repeated insistence on Salisbury's unnecessary attendance on the king. "I think the tale came from a woman," she said, and then, after a pause, "I would lay long odds that it came from his wife. It comes to my mind that Lady Ela does not approve of her husband's close association with his brother. I misjudged that woman, Ian. She is very clever."

But Ian was not listening. He was staring at the window, and his eyes had the faraway look of a man who sees a vision. "A woman," he said softly, and then more softly, so that Alinor would not have heard if she had not been aware of the faintest whisper of his voice, "I had almost forgotten."

On the words he pushed back his chair hurriedly. He limped across the room, unlocked the coffer where the jewels lay, and searched roughly among them. Alinor was so surprised that she could not say a word, nor did she notice then what he extracted from the chest.

"The men will see you to the field," he threw over his shoulder at her. "I have an errand—a call I must pay. Fare you well."

Frozen, mute with disbelief, Alinor watched him go. She heard his halting step down the stairs, heard him calling orders to his men and his squires, heard him mount and ride away alone—and still she could not stir nor utter a sound. A woman he had almost forgotten. He has left me, Alinor thought, perhaps to go to his death, without a kiss, or a tender word—without a look. This, I shall have to remember: a "Fare you well," cast at me like a clod of earth because his whole being was bent upon another woman.