Alinor (46 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

If Alinor had seen Ian's face when he emerged from a house somewhat larger and more elegant than her own, she would have been saved much grief. He did not look like a man who had parted tenderly and sorrowfully from the love of his life. Amusement and satisfaction mingled with puzzlement on his face. The lady he had visited, with whom he had, indeed, once had a long and satisfactory, if quite intermittent, relationship had talked freely enough once her throat was lubricated by the very pretty and very expensive necklet Ian had brought her. Ian did not doubt her facts. Saer de Quincy, FitzWalter's bosom friend, was one of her steady clients, and she had an uncanny ability to extract information from men. Ian blushed to think of the things he had told her from time to time. What she said, however, left him thoroughly confused.

Apparently, there must be two quite separate plots to eliminate him. One, the one Lady Mary had so obligingly disclosed, was easy enough to accredit to the king, for it bore the mark of the way his mind worked, although it could never be brought home to him. In any case, proof against John was the last thing Ian wanted. That plot—a neat and deadly combination of attack by acknowledged enemies among the opposition and treachery by two or three knights enlisted under his own banner—might well have worked had it not been for the other. Ian cast wildly around in his mind for someone he could have hurt or offended enough to desire his death, who was also of such monumental stupidity as to hatch so inept a plot.

It did not matter, of course. The device had no chance of working once it was known, and it had no chance of remaining unknown by its very nature. When gold is scattered freely among poor knights-errant before they have accomplished their mission and are therefore bound to remain in the place, tongues are bound to wag over wine pots and in bawdy houses. It was this talk that had brought Vesci and Leicester to fight under Ian's banner and which FitzWalter had betrayed. A good move, that, Ian acknowledged. For FitzWalter, it would have been better if no scent of treachery had fouled the tourney atmosphere, but, once the smell of it was abroad, he could hope to cut his losses by fixing Ian's attention on the expectation of a mass attack from the opposition.

By the time Ian reached the tourney field, his amusement had abated. Plot and overplot that revealed each other might be funny. It was also true that the likelihood that either plot alone would be successful was greatly decreased by the fact that it was known. However, the men involved in the king's plan were quite intelligent enough to put two and two together. If they held off their attack until the mass attack was launched, the combination might well overwhelm Ian, Vesci, Leicester and their followers. While he donned his armor in the pavilion assigned to his forces, Ian worried the question of revealing what he knew to the others. Either alternative was equally unpleasant If he spoke, he would blacken the king's name in a dangerous way; if he did not, he might endanger the men who were trying to help him.

Owain proffered a tilting helmet, which Ian stared at blankly for a minute. Then he thrust it away impatiently. "Not that one," he snapped. "This is fighting. I have to breathe." And then, furiously, "My God, do you mean to tell me you have not brought my battle helm?"

No one intended to tell him anything when he was in that mood. Owain rushed to make a pretence of searching while Geoffrey was already out of the tent and on a horse, racing back to the house to rectify the mistake. It was fortunate for Ian's squires that Sir Henry and Sir Walter chose that moment to arrive. Had Ian not been so furious at Owain and Geoffrey and still so undecided about what to do, he might have noticed the slightly overhearty manner in which they greeted him. He returned the greeting courteously enough, but his face was as black as thunder. The men glanced at each other. They had gone to Ian's house in good time to ride with him to the field and found him gone. This had provided them with the dubious pleasure of escorting Alinor, who was in such a temper that they had been heartily glad to be rid of her.

"Er—it is a fair and pleasant day," Sir Henry assayed.

"The weather holds most mild," Sir Walter agreed uneasily.

Ian looked from one to the other and made a quick compromise. "The weather may be the only thing that smiles upon us," he remarked. "As you may know from yesterday's events, there are a few who believe I have done them a wrong. In fact, it has come to my ears that a large party will be marshaled especially against me."

To Ian's surprise, expressions of intense relief, which were quickly masked, appeared on the faces of Alinor's vassals. Both assured him they would watch for any sign of such a move and hold their places beside him as well as they could. Ian could only assume that they, too, had heard the rumors and, for some reason, were reluctant to speak of the matter. Then he realized there was no need to warn Vesci and Leicester. Obviously, they already knew the part of the plot that might endanger them. Of the treachery from his own side, Ian dared not speak. Perhaps it would have been safe to tell Leicester, but Vesci and his followers would actively seek proof that John was involved in it—and they would seek the proof for treasonable purposes.

As if on cue of his thoughts, Vesci stuck his head into the tent "Oh, you are here. Arundel's men are forming up."

"And so would mine be if I had other than idiots for squires," Ian replied, but his voice was lighter.

He was a great fool to worry about Vesci and Leicester. They were competent fighters and, moreover, no one wanted to harm them. The worst that would befall them was the need to pay horse and armor ransom. Ian stepped out of the tent and cocked an ear to the imprecations of a coarse voice. They were saddling one of the gray destriers, and the grooms were obviously having trouble. It was a pity there was no way to place the saddle on the horse with a rider in it. It was also a pity that one could not explain to a horse the difference between a saddle empty because the rider had not yet mounted, or had dismounted voluntarily, and empty because the rider had been hurt or killed.

The others had heard the grooms also, and they all moved by one consent to watch. The audience did nothing to calm the horse, and even when the saddle was firm and Ian in it, the creature kicked and bucked for several minutes. By then, fortunately for all concerned, Geoffrey was able, breathlessly, to hold up Ian's battle helmet. There were comments on the advantages and disadvantages of the open style of helmet, and on the use of so finely trained horses, while the men rode off all together in the best of tempers.

The field, where most of the participants had arrived already, lifted spirits even higher. The sun glanced back from helmets and from mail-clad arms, winked on the bosses of shields and the metal of the horses' harness. Brilliantly dyed surcoats and brightly painted shields glowed in the clear morning light The only dull thing was the earth itself, but the slippery, dry grass had mostly been torn away and broken to dust by the previous day's jousting. There was less danger of slipping. That was good, but there was also nothing at all to hold the dry earth down. That was not so good, because the dust, disturbed by the horses' hooves, would soon obscure from the judges and the audience much of what was happening.

Ian guffawed briefly when the thought crossed his mind. Much good the judges could do him, even with the best will in the world to help and even if they did see what was happening. Their power was limited to calling a foul and depriving the guilty party of horse and armor ransom. Since dead men do not pay ransom, the point was moot. Of course, theoretically, the judges could also stop the fighting if they saw any large-scale dishonorable action. The notion made Ian laugh again. Stopping the fighting in a tourney was not like picking apart two small boys who were in a squabble. It took time to stop a tourney, and in that time the work on him might be finished three times over.

"You are in good spirits, my lord."

Ian turned his head to look at FitzWalter. "I am indeed," he remarked blandly. "The nice thing about being battle leader in a tournament is that the responsibility ends once the sides are chosen and marshaled on the field. In a war, a leader must continue to worry about the safety and the movements of his men, you know—or do you know?"

FitzWalter's face turned purple. His ransom had been paid by the king, but many of the men from Vaudreuil still languished in French prisons. Ian's remark was an open insult, and he had spoken quite deliberately to see how far the man would go. He went the full route.

A grimace that was meant for a smile pulled at FitzWalter's lips. Choking on the words, he replied, "You are very merry, my lord, very merry, and a little excited, too, I think. Too excited to weigh words carefully at this moment. Let it pass. In view of what I had to tell you two days ago, I have come to ask to fight near at hand to you."

"How kind of you," Ian said icily. "You know, I begin to think the threat you heard was some jest. So many ears have heard it—here are Leicester and Vesci and others, too, all asking to ride behind me. Surely if harm was intended me, a little more care would be taken to keep the secret. However, if you can find a place in the crowd of well-wishers, you are welcome."

With some satisfaction, Ian watched the expression that remark had brought to FitzWalter's face. It might well be that he had taken the heart from the king's plot with those few words. Besides, he noted with amusement, FitzWalter was not exactly finding a welcome. When the man turned to look for an opening, Sir Henry and Sir Walter nudged their horses a little closer to Ian's. Leicester's men also drew together, and the earl advanced a few steps, as if to say something to Ian, but he did not speak. FitzWalter moved off to Ian's left and found a place beyond Vesci's men.

Mild winter or not mild, Ian thought, glancing at the sun, it was getting cold sitting still without a cloak. He could feel his sore muscles tightening, and he watched with displeasure as Pembroke and Salisbury engaged in still another conference. Ian looked at the colors of the knight who had apparently raised a question. Devil take him, it was that young scapegrace Robert de Remy. Now what was he about? The decision was apparently negative, with some allowance. The young man said a word of thanks for the grace given and then turned his horse and galloped across to pull up before Ian.

"My lord," he said, "I have been to the heralds, but I am not allowed to change sides. I tried to see you last night, but your lady sent a message that you were engaged―"

"A polite tale. I was abed groaning over my bruises, some of which you gave me. Now quick, I am freezing, what is it you want of me?"

"Just to say I am sorry to fight against you, my lord, and I hope you will not hold me to blame and—and I am most anxious to take service with you―"

"Robert," Ian said exasperatedly, "do not talk as if you were one instead of twenty-one. How can you be to blame for which side you take in a tourney. This is no grudge fight."

The young man's face was partly concealed by his helmet, but it seemed to Ian that his expression changed, possibly was marked with concern at those words. He could do nothing but ignore it. "Just see that you fight as hard as you can against me. I will love you all the better for it. And for God's sake, and mine, do
not
come to my house tonight Wait until tomorrow at least. My offer of service will not fly away. Now let us start this battle before I become frozen into my seat. And Robert," he added, his expression softening, "have a care to yourself. I want you whole and undamaged."

"You also, my lord. Have a care—" He stopped, then leaned closer across the horses. "Have a care especially to your back," he whispered.

That was odd, Ian thought very odd. How could the boy know anything about that second plot But at that moment the trumpets sounded, and Ian abandoned any thoughts beyond those of immediate action. All along the line, shields were swung forward, swords or other weapons drawn from their resting places. For those men to whom nervous speech was natural, voices were raised in meaningless jests and remarks. The herald came to the center of the field and began to read the formal phrases.

"...the honorable Lord William, Earl of Arundel, and, for the king, the honorable Lord Ian, Baron de Vipont have chosen..."

Ian's eyes wandered to the loges, and a qualm of worry seized him. He had not thought once of Alinor since he left the house. He wished she did not have to sit beside the king. It was all very well for Salisbury to say Lady Ela would take care of Alinor. Ian doubted whether Lady Mary, the Queen of Heaven, would be able to stop Alinor's tongue if she saw him struck down.

Alinor's thoughts were running in the same pattern as her husband's. It had been some years now since Alinor had worried about her tongue betraying her. During the time Richard had been king, Alinor had been much at court and had added to the training she had had from the old queen. With people she trusted, she was still prone to let hot words fly before she thought, but not with others. She feared herself now, because her rage at Ian was like to spill over onto everyone around her.

The frozen shock that had held her silent when Ian left her so abruptly had melted into a bitter storm of tears. Since their wedding night, Alinor had not given a single thought to the rival she once believed held Ian's heart. There had not been the smallest hint that his love for her was shadowed by another image. Most often he did not even close his eyes in loveplay. Some woman who loathed her husband had once told Alinor that was how she endured his embraces—she closed her eyes and imagined another man. The remark had not made much impression at the time; Alinor closed her own eyes, not to imagine another man but to concentrate better on the one she had. After she mastered her weeping, however, she thought back over the month of her marriage, seeking signs and portents in every remembered word and act.

Nothing had betrayed another interest. And I am a fool to have wasted time thinking of it, Alinor said to herself. Ian's own words had confirmed his satisfaction with his wife. "I had almost forgotten," he had whispered. What kind of love is it that could "almost for- get"? Alinor did not "forget" Simon. She did not think of him all the time; for that matter, she did not think of Ian all the time. But Simon was always there, just as Ian was always there. Never by any stretch of the truth could she say she had "almost forgotten" either of them. It was insane to be jealous of a woman, of a love, that could be "almost forgotten." Yet, no matter what she thought or what arguments she offered herself, the hurt remained. That he could go that way, without a single tender kiss or look, to bid another woman farewell was unbearable.